


a.a.m.

by Anonymous (Annevar44)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 129,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annevar44/pseuds/Anonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The civil war in Arbeztan was short and brutal and mattered to almost no one.  It's been over for four years.</p><p>Angel Morjo, American girl and accidental survivor, has been back in Boston a long time - long enough that her sores have healed and her hair has grown in.  The limp persists, though, and the scars run deep.  She goes to work every day by the same route and she doesn't think about the past; she <i>never<i> thinks about it.  But she still looks over her shoulder.  You can leave a place, but you can't stop it from following you home.</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Every six months a letter appears in her mailbox with a Virginia postmark.  "I'm still thinking of you," writes Jamie Callahan.  "Call if you ever need anything." She saves those letters and gloats over them at night.  She'll never call him, of course.  She wishes she could.  But she can't let him see what she's become.  </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>And then, one night--</i>
  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diary of Angel Morjo:  first entry

.

_July 6_

_We left Prague on the first Saturday in April. It was the start of spring break. Carana was worried we wouldn't make it back on time._

__

__

_We were both quiet that afternoon, moving around each other as we got ready. When I pulled my backpack down from the closet shelf, it still smelled of dirt and grass. I looked over at Carana, willing her to be looking back. She wasn't, though. She was still bending over her borrowed pack. Frowning, that crease between her eyes, as she took her clothes out for maybe the fourth time and refolded them and set them in again. I knew she was thinking about wrinkles - and on a different day I would have made fun of her for it. But that last afternoon, a charged air filled the space between us, and I said nothing._

_I packed in minutes. My sleeping bag went in first, and then a sheet for Carana because I knew she wouldn't think of bringing one. She was new at this, but I was an old hand - or felt like one, anyway. That's why I was responsible for her. That, and the fact that she was my best friend. And of course the trip was my idea. Jiri had made the offer to her, but I was the one who had pushed her to say yes._

 _We were supposed to come into the Vuro train station at three a.m., which meant we'd spend the rest of the night on a hard bench in the deserted station, waiting for dawn. There was a decent chance we'd be fending off strange men (those are pretty much the only kind you meet in train stations in the middle of the night) and if you don't have a sleeping bag for defense, a sheet is better than nothing. Maybe there would be one lone security guard walled up inside a booth of metal bars or plexiglass, and no matter who hassled us or how bad it got, he'd pretend not to notice._

__

_I was eager for all this. The night before, I'd gotten up in the dark and crossed on tiptoe to her bed on the other side of the room. I'd crouched beside her and touched her shoulder to wake her up. We had talked for a long time. I'd been convincing. I promised it would all work out._

_My clothes went into the pack next, quickly, because I didn't have many and they all looked alike. I packed the plastic bag of toiletries. I packed my journal. It was almost blank after ten months in Europe but I carried it around everywhere like a prop, and was always on the verge of writing something important in it. Now that I was heading off on a mythic journey to Arbeztan, my father's country, I was sure that wise and poetic thoughts would spring from my pen._

_Finally, I buckled the pack's top flap and swung it up to my shoulders to test the weight. It was so light, it practically bounced._

_I had trouble deciding what to put on my feet. This was the one thing that seemed important. My ancient battered sneakers were trustworthy, and I'd been trudging Prague's cobblestone streets in them day after day since TeachPrague started, in rain and snow, from our apartment to the Metro and up all those stone stairs into the fancy homes of the clients. On the other hand, I'd just bought a pair of golden sandals at a sidewalk stall and they made me think of Hermes - one of my favorites, the god of thieves and travelers, which seemed like fitting footwear for a mythic journey. The trouble was, they were delicate and girly, and we might have miles to walk. In the back of my mind, I think I already knew there might be trouble and I should be ready for it. I saw myself as the leader. Carana would count on me. And all my life, I had always prided myself on being rugged and ready, never girly in silly ways. So the sneakers won out. I put the golden sandals on the high shelf of the closet and used a coat hanger to shove them way back where they'd be hard to reach, so I wouldn't be tempted to change my mind._

_Carana went out after lunch to meet Jiri, and when she came back she held out the yellow envelope. I didn't miss the hint of fear in her eyes; I just pretended not to see it. "You carry it," she said. I can hear her low voice and I can see the tense set of her mouth and her lean bare arms and blue t shirt. We were standing together in the tiny kitchen near the sink where the faucet always dripped, next to the part of the wall where the plaster had broken, exposing a nest of black electrical wiring. Already it was almost too late, but we didn't know it._

_I took the papers out of the envelope and folded them into the travel pouch that was slung under my shirt. The shelf of my breasts hid the bulge. I straightened my clothes. Neither of us said a word. I think we both felt it at the same time: the understanding that it was all decided and we weren't going to turn back. That's when a ragged thrill streaked out along all my nerves and lit me up. Suddenly I could see our future in a flash. The two of us would be on the train soon and the doors would close us in, the engine would kick into life. My heart clutched. I was taut as a spring and my lips drew back and I grinned at her in a fierce, involuntary way._

_We left the apartment. She went out first. I locked the door behind us and pocketed the key. We hoisted up our backpacks. We thumped down the narrow stone stairs, four flights, out into the street. We walked to the metro. It was close to sunset and the spires glowed, and the ripples on the Vltava smashed the slanted sunlight into flakes of gold. She was still nervous, but I was invincible. I had become electrified with a high, soaring excitement just like any moth rushing into any flame. At the station we boarded the train._

_I will always remember that night as the best one of my life. I was wilder and stronger than I'd ever been, lit inside with a fire that burned white and threw hot sparks from my fingertips, my eyes, all my pores. I stood astride the train as it thrummed beneath me, my bare feet spread for balance and my toes digging into the rippled floor. I felt like a ship's captain heading into glory. The train was my ship and its power ran through me; my best friend was beside me; my blood was up, and a fair wind was driving me toward destiny. Out the windows, where the countryside lay as dark as the open ocean, my mind painted waves and spits of rocky land, monsters, promontories, sea nymphs and sirens. I was thinking of all those nights as a kid when I'd lain awake reading on the ratty sofa in my old apartment, losing myself in stories of the Age of Heroes while my dad snored behind his bedroom door, and the famous Kenmore Square Citgo sign beat a blood-red pulse against the cracked window. That night on the train, I knew for certain that all my life and strength and spirit had brought me at last to the adventure I was made for. Up ahead, the glowing shores of Ilium beckoned me on._

_One time, the train jolted as we rounded a curve. Carana lost her balance. She lurched awkwardly and I grabbed for her hand. Where our skin met, I tried to send the current of my strength into her body. In every revolution of the wheels, I heard our names sung out in triumph. I could see everything that lay ahead for us. Months before, we'd laid summer plans together: Rome, Venice, the Amalfi coast. We spent whole nights in the fall and winter mapping out our dream tour as we lay in our lumpy beds and talked in the dark. We used to talk for hours about everything and nothing, emptying our hearts, wading in a river of friendship that had no beginning and no end._

__

_After Italy, I knew, fall would come like a giant net from the sky that we couldn't escape, dragging us back to opposite sides of America. She'd return to Idaho for grad school and her waiting fiance, while I'd head back to Boston. I knew our lives would go down different roads. But I'd get some kind of job and save up plane fare and come out for her wedding and be her maid of honor. I'd get to see her family at last, the beautiful family that I already knew by heart from all her photos and stories: the handsome lacrosse-playing little brother, the dog, the nice home with the backyard where her mother grew tomatoes and where they all used to play volleyball at summer cookouts with the neighbor kids. Her father and mother would open their arms and fold me in, all under a wide clear sky of northern blue. I saw every detail of this as if it were already written. That night on the train, it all lay in front of us like a magic world._

_Her family is still in Boise, I guess. It hurts to think of them gathered at the kitchen table, all looking at the empty chair. I never did meet them. Neither of us got as far as Italy. The truth is stark and it goes like this: We crossed the border into Arbeztan on the eve of a civil war. I took my best friend into danger. I didn't bring her back._


	2. June 2, Boston

Angel took shallow breaths through her teeth. The T was packed with bodies and she was trying not to think about all the other lungs the air had passed through before hers. Her shirt was sticking over her breasts, and the bulky flesh of strangers pressed in at her until she wanted to lunge out of her own skin, out the window in a dark shot toward cooler air. She knew where to find it, too. Thousands of miles away in the high reaches of the Kar-Paval, the breeze was free and open bowls of rock and grass curved upward. The ridged spines of the mountains braided as they rose to form black stabbing peaks that might still hold patches of snow in their crevices. Down below the heights lay the river-cracked foothills, and lower still was the terrible place: the train tracks, the smothering forest, the deadly strip of ground between Vuro and the upslanted earth. She'd never go back to Arbeztan, not if she lived a thousand years, not even at gunpoint, not ever. But the parts of her that had been torn away there still hissed and whispered sometimes, and called her name. 

Here there were no mountains. There was no chill breeze and no relief. June had arrived with an opening salvo of scorching heat, as if Boston had come under siege. The heat smashed down on the concrete in an acrid blast. It was like artillery fire: terrible and numbing at the same time, so that after a while you stopped wishing for it to end. You just suffered and went on. She had been on her feet since changing to the Green Line at Park Street, and her bad hip throbbed. All the tricks she usually used to survive situations like this - counting backwards, calculating exponents of two, naming world capitals - were failing her. She clutched at a metal pole for balance and used her shoulders to push resentfully at the crowd that trapped her. She looked at the broad brick-red neck of the man in front of her. What she'd really like would be to jab her keys quick and hard into his bare nape and make him scream. There was a scream growing inside her, one she could barely keep from voicing. If she made the man scream it for her, that would be almost as good as screaming it herself. 

The trolley slowed to a stop, making the passengers lurch forward and back in a jellied mass. The brick-necked man took a step backward, pinning Angel's forehead against his shoulder blade. She breathed carefully. She wouldn't panic. She would endure; she had been through worse. Ahead, she heard the huff and whistle of the front door folding open. The semi-solid mass of riders gushed forward like vomit toward the exit. She was carried along until she came to the top of the steps and looked down. And then everything changed - day into dark, quick as whiplash - and the T was gone and she was on a different train.

 _I'm doing it. I made a promise and I'm gonna keep it._

_Angel, you're fucking insane. Don't go out there._

The corridor was crowded. Voices chattered all around her, but not in English. The train windows had gone nearly black, and beyond them she could see a dim stripe of cleared land that ran alongside the track. Past the clearing was the woods, dark and deep and endless. Carana was pale, and her shocking blondness crowned her like a halo. They both stood where they always stood, a few feet apart, facing off in confrontation. There was chaos around them, but they remained still, both of them stiff and furious, as if they'd just slapped each other. Carana was wearing the blue t shirt. Just behind her, the blond Brit from the dining car - what had his name been? - had a hand set possessively on her shoulder. The other passengers wore dark cloth coats. Some of them were gripping their luggage or digging tense fingers into their children's shoulders. They stared anxiously into the eyes of strangers, searching for reassurance. The train lay still but humming, a silver twist like a snake on the tracks with the woods all around. 

_Please, Angel. Please, don't. Don't go out there._

An arc of white light streaked above the trees, lighting the mountains above Vuro. She had her backpack on already, the frayed belt cinched around her hips. That was the proof that it was too late; nothing Carana said would change her mind. 

"Aw, cmon. C,mon, lady."

The world turned bright again and the other train dissolved. Sunlight struck violently against the street and the crowd shouldered past her. She slid her bad leg forward off the top step. The first step down always rammed a jolt of pain up her hip like a silver spike. Another hop-shuffle would put her down safely on the cracked concrete. 

That was how it usually worked out. Not today, though. Today as she slid her foot forward, her long skirt caught on her heel and she lost her balance, flailed, and grabbed for the handrail while a bright blade of hurt shot up her left leg. She slipped off the next step, skinning her calves on the edge, and barely managed to keep her footing at the bottom. All around her, the crowd surged on. Her heart was knocking against her ribs. She must look like an idiot. Most people could get off the T without making fools of themselves. 

As she began the walk home, she could feel blood seeping down under her skirt, making a slow track toward the heel of her pump. She tried not to think about that other train and what had happened next. A grim official in uniform had shouldered through the crowd in her direction. She had grabbed his arm. They'd argued briefly in stilted English and pantomime, as she pointed toward the closed doors, and shook his head again and again - until finally he had shrugged dismissively and opened a panel on the wall. He had thrown a lever, and the doors in the car had folded apart and the night air had rushed in to touch her cheek. At the top of the steps she'd turned to shoot Carana a final look of angry triumph. 

She concentrated on walking as normally as she could, but the pain distracted her so that she forgot where she was. She was usually careful to turn her eyes away from the storefronts at the crucial junction where Abbot rounded into North Beacon Street, but today she didn't, and the silver windows of Mila's Boutique leaped up in front of her. The line of mannequins stood in their usual formation, jutting out their perfect alabaster hips. Behind them was the deadly mirror. It spat the terrible truth at her, showing her the bizarre and hideous creature on the sidewalk: a woman shaped like a lump, covered up in cloth from neck to ankle and lurching off-kilter like a hunchback with every step. The face on that woman was her own face, but barely recognizable with its puffy cheeks and padded jaw, its forehead pocked with dents of worry. She looked older than twenty-nine. Instantly she flicked her eyes toward the street, toward neutral, inoffensive ground, but it was too late. Shame had already speared her brain like a harpoon.

One of the old church ladies had actually praised her clothes the week before. "I just love your outfits. Modesty is a lost virtue these days." The woman herself wore a garish kerchief and carried a Bible swaddled in a little quilted jacket like a baby, and Angel, who'd been crossing the church lobby with a crate of stuffed envelopes, had thanked her and wished her dead. Maybe if she could dress normally she would be less of a freak. Someday - that was the eternal promise she made herself - someday she'd lose weight and be sinew and bone again, and then she'd try out an alley-girl look in a short ripped skirt and boots from the Goodwill around the corner. If she were thin, the marks on her arms and legs had a hope of looking feral and interesting rather than just grotesque.

Just ahead was the ragged field ruled by the Brazilians, who did battle on it every evening between two ripped nets. The leaping freedom of their bodies, their rough shouts, made her ache with envy. Beyond them was the gauntlet of golden college kids lifting mugs and glasses at tables outside the Red Moon Cafe. They'd be flirting and chattering about classes, and they'd look toward her and then glance away politely while she kept up her hard not-caring face and looked straight ahead. They didn't know her - that was the resolute chant she repeated to herself. They didn't know squat. She might look like an overweight church secretary, but they had no idea where she'd been. 

Her high-rise was the third one past Summer Ave and the closer she got the harder it pulled on her and the worse she needed it, like an addict closing in on a fix. She counted off her steps: twenty-two up the weedy walkway to the shrubs, then six up the steps to the front door. She struck the entry code into the keypad with something close to desperation. All she wanted was to be alone.

As she took hold of the door handle, though, her neck pricked. A malicious gaze had settled on her; she could feel it. Sick and fearful, she glanced back. The cracked walkway was empty. Of course she had known it would be; it always was, but she always looked anyway. She could never stop herself, just like she could never stop her panic when she saw a face on the street that looked familiar, or heard an Arbezi accent or the metallic clap of a car backfiring. She was a slave to irrational fears. One time at work she'd screamed because the pastor came up behind her in her office when she was typing, and tapped her on the shoulder.

She was crazy - still, after so much time. There was no danger on the street and no stalkers in the shrubbery. Arbeztan was a million miles away and four years behind her. The only prison here was her unreliable mind, carrying on its torments. 

She hauled the door open and slipped inside, testing the catch after it shut. Then she let out her breath: safe. She would check the mailroom as she always did, even though Jamie's next letter wasn't due until the first week of July. There would be nothing down inside her black metal mailbox except disappointment, and maybe a circular from a furniture store. Then she'd go up the elevator into her own place and throw the lock and slide the chain. She'd get that sweet gold moment she loved; the moment she could drop the face she wore for the world. She'd sink into the sofa with the remote and a glass of wine and whatever food was at hand. Turn on the TV. Leave her body behind, erase all memory, embrace oblivion.


	3. June 2, Hartstown VA

Jamie Callahan lay down heavily in bed. He could hear Theresa splashing her face on the other side of the bathroom door, and the sound lifted his mood a little. Every night ended like this: him in bed while she made him wait with rising anticipation. She had three blue glass jars of face cream she'd set up on the edge of the sink and she'd be in there for ten minutes, running the water intermittently, going through a complicated ritual that had to be done according to precise rules. When she finally emerged and came to him, she'd be transformed in an indefinable way. Her makeup would be off but it was more than that change only - her face was softer somehow, more open, either older or younger than the face she wore to work. She'd lie down beside him wearing her sleeping clothes, and the scent of her face cream would reach him and make him think of oranges and flowers. She'd bend to fit the bends of his body, and the two of them would find with no effort the curves they'd worn into each other for twenty years. But first she'd make him wait. 

Once, a long time ago, he'd teased her about the blue glass jars. They'd come together for a vacation in the Greek islands after months apart, and when she stepped off the evening ferry into his arms he was only thinking of one thing. As soon as they were alone in the hotel room, he tried to pull her toward the bed. But she pushed him off, laughing. "Wait, no, I'm not ready. My face - I haven't undone it." 

"You can't wash it all away," he'd told her. "The job. Your makeup. Your perfect face. It's ingrained by now. It goes way more than just skin deep." He didn't know why he'd said it. A hint of meanness probably, or irritation that she was less eager for him than he was for her. And she'd drawn a sharp breath and turned on him, and he was surprised by the sudden pain in her eyes. 

"I have to try," she said, "or I can't sleep at night." 

Years went by and the three jars - or their identical replacements - continued to make an appearance beside the bathroom sink in every hotel and beachfront cottage and temporary Virginia apartment the two of them joined up at. Four years ago when the great disaster struck them and they bought their at-long-last permanent home outside Alexandria, she set the jars into the cabinet of the master bath, and every night since she'd closed the bathroom door against him and gone through her ritual alone. He had long since stopped wondering what it meant to her. 

He heard the water run once more, splashing against the drain. He heard the door slide open on the mirrored cabinet. The jars clinked. The door slid shut. The towel ring squeaked. He closed his eyes and listened. It had been a bad day, worse than his usual kind of bad day, and he was glad that even the worst days ended in the solace of her warm, compact body in his arms.

He'd spent most of the morning and afternoon where he always did: at Theta, brooding in his office. His monthly report on Arbeztan was due in two days but he couldn't get up the energy to care. He was up to date on all the national media, the parliamentary press releases, the editorial blather from every paper of every political tilt, even the arts-and-culture beats of the capital. But he had nothing new to say about Arbeztan. This month's report would be like last month's which had been like the one before. He traded out synonyms and rearranged the order of his sentences, that was all. Elizabeth, his supervisor, was not impressed. She had recently warned him that she saw through his abuse of copy-and-paste. 

Adding to his despondency, one of the main Arbezi weeklies had just come out with a front-page feature on Azor Mirtallev, complete with huge photos of Azor at home, Azor grinning triumphantly as he watched the fights at the Stadium of Fallen Soldiers, and so on. The writer flaunted all the angles that Azor always loved to flaunt: Azor, a boy of humble origins and patriotic dreams. Azor, the simple man who had believed in his country and its greatness, and who'd been inspired to greatness of his own because of his vision of Arbeztan's glory. Callahan could imagine his old friend leaning back at a restaurant table during the interview, joking, spinning tales, being relentlessly charming, swelling to fill the room until the reporter was sucked into his orbit, helpless as a pebble drawn by the gravitational field of the sun. 

In mid afternoon, one of his former students had knocked at his office door. He assumed she had paperwork for him, because at Theta there was always paperwork, and paperwork had become the god that ruled over him. So he'd been surprised and pleased when she said, "I'm having a going-away fling before I leave for Warsaw. I'm inviting everyone I'll miss, and since you were my favorite teacher, I'd love for you to be there. Williamson Hall, Suite 2C. Drop by anytime after four o'clock. Please say you'll come." 

She held his eyes a fraction of second past the usual length. Marnie Peterson was her name, a darkly pretty girl who'd watched him in class with an intensity that had flattered him. He guessed her age as twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. Girls like her still flirted with him, but not as often as they used to and mostly, he couldn't help noticing, when they wanted something. He decided he'd go to her party. His intentions were innocent; he was happily married. Even if he weren't, he wouldn't be fool enough to start something with a student. No, he just wanted to step through the veil for a moment and go back in time. He'd gotten nostalgic for the good old days, when every door was still open and he had no foreknowledge of his coming fall. 

At five he locked up and walked across campus to the west side, where a row of identical brick buildings housed students on their four- or six- or ten-month rotations at Theta base. Soon he was knocking at her door. He stepped into a room that was noisy, hot, and crowded, with students he half-recognized jostling and roosting in corners and shouting to each other over the music. A few of them started at the sight of him. He was surprised to see some of Theta's younger security guards there, too, out of uniform and mingling easily with the crowd. 

He glimpsed the hostess standing not far from him. She looked young in jeans and a t-shirt. She was leaning close to another woman. He caught her words. "I know - Poland! It's _exactly_ what I wanted." For him, his first posting had been Ecuador. He'd seen Ter off on a flight to the Philippines the day before, so he'd been dropped at the airport by a friend. He'd been excited just like the Peterson girl was. There was nothing like the thrill of setting out for your first posting.

An ironing board draped with a scarf was doubling as a spare table. A tall skinny man with a goatee was flicking cigarette ash into an empty Coke can, while a fairly drunk young woman reclined languorously on a sofa, draping herself over its tubular metal arm. He remembered parties like this, where people had more fun than they'd ever have in the future at embassy soirees and faculty awards ceremonies. He scanned the room with a practiced eye. Only one other person besides himself was a clear outsider: a man in a sharp jacket who was stalking among the guests like a predator collecting scalps. 

In Marnie's kitchen, he surveyed the bottles on the counter. They were mostly plastic: cheap vodka like what he and his high school friends used to chug, cheap rum, OJ, coke, margarita mix with a beckoning senorita on the label. The display was an unwanted reminder, as if he needed one, that everyone else in the room was barely past legal drinking age. He poured a drink he didn't want, because having one in his hand would help him fit in. Someone moved stealthily behind him. He turned. The sharp jacket had sidled up beside him, and it was too late to escape. 

"You're in Media Analysis, I hear." The man put out his hand. "I'm John Teller. Marnie's husband. What's your region of specialty?" 

"Well, for M.A. I mostly cover Arbeztan. But I teach a class at Theta that covers the history and culture of all of eastern Europe. That's where I met your wife. She took it during the winter trimester." 

He could see at a glance that John Teller wasn't State. He had the rich pampered look that State people almost always had - in spite of what the recruiters said - but his chipped edge of superiority set him apart. Callahan guessed him as an Ivy Leaguer with an axe to grind. Probably an MBA or a lawyer, old money, the kind who had married with the unspoken expectation of business dinners where his wife would play hostess to his colleagues. Now she was the one throwing the parties, and he was being dragged off to Poland at her side. 

"Arbeztan." John Teller loaded the word with more contempt than it could comfortably carry. "Seems like a waste of resources, doesn't it? I'm always surprised the State Department bothers to have anyone keep an eye on those funny little countries where nothing important happens."

Callahan felt sympathy for Marnie Peterson. She was bright and ambitious and had a chance at a stellar future in the foreign service, but her spouse would hold her back. He wondered if she realized that yet. He glanced back through the narrow kitchen entryway, expecting to see her still in conversation, and was surprised to find her watching him with an intent, calculating look, her lips touched with the merest hint of a smile.

In a flash he got it. This was why he'd been invited: not as a favorite professor but as a man who'd yank the husband's chain. He fit the bill in some way: the older man, a professor, reasonably handsome and in good shape. She'd talked about him at home, dropping sly hints. He was a poisoned valentine she was delivering to John Teller on the eve of their departure. _Be careful. I have lots of options._

He pitied her more. Barely more than a kid, and already she'd moved on from love to tactics. 

Playing his part, he smiled his best diplomat's smile at John Teller. "You should be very proud of your wife, you know. She's an amazing woman and I'm sorry to see her go. But Warsaw is an exciting place full of opportunities. Excuse me, will you? I should wish her luck." 

At home, he and Theresa had dinner together and spoke of the usual married business. She'd made plans for Sunday brunch at her father's house, a forty-five minute drive west. They discussed the latest slaughter in DR Congo and the leaky faucet he planned to repair over the weekend. His thoughts kept returning to the party. Theresa kept looking at him out of the corner of her eye and he knew he was being too quiet, worrying her, but he couldn't find the will to do any better.

After they washed up together, he looked over the lesson plan for his next lecture. He'd taught the same survey course for four years straight, and since Theta was on a trimester schedule, this was his twelfth time through. Sometimes he welcomed teaching days because they were, at least, a break from non-teaching days. At other times he gritted his teeth and resented the hell out of them. He had no more illusions that he would one day be forgiven his sins and reinstated to Ambassadorial. Arbeztan, where he'd spent the best years of his life, was now a far-off place he read articles about and wrote idiotic reports on. 

There were times he thought of calling Azor.

From the photos and articles that came out of Arbeztan, success hadn't changed his old friend. He was still big and brawling and hard-drinking, still photographed at his clubs in the company of sudden millionaires and men of questionable reputation. Azor would welcome a call from him and there would be no hard feelings, no awkward reference to the four years that had passed and the reason Callahan had been yanked from the capital in the last weeks of the war. Azor would be delighted to pick up the friendship where they had left it. But Callahan could never find the will the make the call. He wasn't the man he'd been and he couldn't go back. Theta was his life sentence. This home, Theresa, this bed he shared with her, were the comforts that made Theta bearable.

Theresa emerged from the bathroom wearing her old Georgetown sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up. The sleek black and white dress she had worn to work was slung over her arm, and in the dim light she looked not so different from the girl he'd met back in A-100. There were lines bracketing her gray eyes and her face in repose was serious - but that was not a change, since she had always been serious. She went to her closet and hung up the dress, adjusting it on its hanger so it fell just the way she wanted it to. Then she joined him under the blanket. For a moment they held each other silently. When he tried to let go, she clung tighter, so he squeezed her again to show he was on her side. He couldn't guess what she was thinking. 

Against his shoulder she said, "We should get divorced." 

He pulled away. 

"We could do it, you know. Get divorced. Then have a torrid affair on the sly." 

"Who with?" 

She elbowed him hard enough to make him gasp. "I'm serious. How long do you want to live like this?" 

"Please," he said. "I'm tired." 

"Yes; that's the point. You're tired and you hate your job and being chained to me means they'll never give you another chance. We could divorce, and then figure something out. We're supposed to be good at clandestine meetings, both of us." She gave a wry smile, then slid a hand up to touch his cheek. 

"They won't give me another chance, regardless," he said. He hadn't been prepared for this. He'd been through this argument silently in his mind plenty of times, and always ended by burying it and mentally swearing loyalty to his marriage, God, and country. 

"You can't be sure unless you try. And I know you think about it. You must." 

"Think about what?" 

"The subject on the table. Divorce." 

"No." 

"I'm not being dramatic. I'm making the reasonable suggestion." 

"We're married," he said. "No one is going to change that. The company can't change that. I won't let them." 

She shouldn't have put on her Georgetown sweatshirt on a night she planned to start this conversation. It recalled the old days when everything was simple. He'd noticed her in the first week of A-100 for her bright, petite shine, but he had dismissed her right away as too smart and too humorless - one of those types he had been impressed by when he left the coalfields and went away to college. In the second week of class, she'd been called to answer a question about the State Department's relationship to the US military. She stayed quiet for a while, knitting her fine eyebrows together. Just as Professor Laetz gave up on her and began scanning the room to choose his next victim, she stood and recited two paragraphs out of the book, word for word. Carlos, beside him, had whispered, "Fuck," under his breath. It was that overawed "Fuck" that annoyed Callahan. That was why he marched up to her after class and asked her to have dinner with him. 

She wasn't what he'd imagined. Before the evening was over, she had him tied into knots. Over dessert, he confessed that he was afraid of her brain. 

"Are you still afraid?" she had teased him during their first trip to Mexico. They were lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon; it was their honeymoon. He had stroked her hair and muttered, "More than ever." 

Now she shoved herself away from him. He could see her in the glow of the clock, propped up on her elbows. In the dark the lines around her eyes were deeper. 

She hissed, "You're so goddamn loyal, aren't you? I married you for your loyalty. I was taken with that down-home West Virginia virtue of yours. But it's a two-edged sword, because it means you'll never leave either of us - not them and not me. You'll stay stuck, halfway between, unhappy on both ends." 

"Damn it, Ter. I said I'm tired." He rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, refusing to give her any more to work with. After a moment she lay on her back beside him, leaving a careful gap between their bodies. "Tell me this," he said at last. "Would you do it again? Would you still have turned in your resignation if you knew how it would turn out for me?" 

He already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear her say it. 

She drew a long breath. "Yes." 

He felt vindicated. There was nothing left to do but turn to her and take her face between his hands and kiss her hard, smashing her lips in equal parts affection and violence. "Of course you would." He released her and closed his eyes. "Goodnight, beautiful. Make me waffles in the morning and we'll call it even." She laughed, sort of. At leaste he had ended the conversation; and with luck, she wouldn't reignite it for a while. She was too close to reading his mind. 

For a long time after her breathing became regular, he watched the numbers change on the clock beside his bed.

\----------------------------  
add ons

It was one more secret between them, in a marriage that had been built on secrets and was united by secrets.

He delighted in knowing things about her that no one else did. The blue glass jars were a mystery, but they were a mystery that only he knew about. He also knew that what the whole world saw in her, namely icy brilliance and chrome gears, was just the iceberg tip of herself she showed in public. She'd never let anyone but him see her eyes puffy from crying. No one else would ever know the sharp, wounded look she sometimes got when she talked about her father. His possession of her was all the more fantastic because she was a chilly locked box to the rest of the world but a warm harbor for him alone. And although there were times when he thought he didn't need her, there were also nights like this - 


	4. June 2, Sokhrina, Democratic Republic of Arbeztan

Mariz Chunak loved the Hotel Krindal. The bench he had chosen as his lookout perch stood against a side wall in the lobby and had a good view of the elevator doors. The bench was a strange and glorious thing to him. The first time he'd come here and sat on it, he was so entranced and distracted by its grandeur that he nearly missed seeing the man he'd come to watch for. The bench's frame was rich wood with bird shapes carved into the arms. The cloth that covered the seat was soft red, the way the morning sun looked in the mountains in the weeks before winter's first snow, and it was so lush his fingers could draw lines and swirls in it. It was all he could do to keep from rubbing the fabric with his palms. He was in the hotel for a serious purpose, though, and he did not want to be a child, so he folded his hands neatly and set them in his lap, and set himself to watch the elevator. 

Until a month before, he had never been out of the mountains and never imagined carved benches and buildings as tall as cliffs with shining stone floors and high ceilings. He hadn't known what an elevator was. During that summer, he had learned to drive, but he had never seen a street packed with cars end to end to end like a mechanical flock, all bleating at each other. He had been born and raised amid the peaks of the Kar-Paval in a hardscrabble cottage. There wasn't a soft bone in his body. He was strong; all Karth men were strong or they were nothing. He was also braver than any of the boys he had grown up with. That's why he was here today, so far from home in the heart of Arbeztan's mighty capital. He had come to do a great thing. Now that the sun was high, he was probably already being talked about throughout his village. He would be remembered forever, and spoken of with awe: Mariz Chunak, a hero of his people, a man who hoisted himself above all the other boys and threw a stone at the sky and made his mark on the world. 

The sliding doors across the great room opened at intervals, allowing some people out of the elevator while others got in. It had been explained to him that an elevator was a large box pulled up and down by a chain, carrying people who were too rich and important to use their legs for climbing. This was just one strange thing of many he had seen in the city. He was captivated by the shining dresses of the women, that showed their legs above tiny painted shoes. He liked the purposeful stride of uniformed men across the lobby. A lot of them carried packages, and Mariz began pretending he was waiting for a package, and that one of these men would deliver it to him soon with a respectful lowered gaze. He pretended he lived in one of the high parts of the building, and that after he received his package he would walk through the sliding doors into the moving box and let the chain pull him up alongside the city people, into their thrilling otherworldly life. 

He had risen in the dark in his cottage under the lean dark knives of the peaks, when the sheep were still quiet and even the women of the village remained asleep. He had dressed in the unfamiliar city clothes that he had worn into Sokhrina on his previous expeditions, so he was used to them now and wore them importantly like the men in the big city. His mother had watched silently, sucking her teeth. He hadn't looked at her. Their stone shack smelled familiarly of smoke and raw wool and wild onion and sheep dung, and it had occurred to him that he would miss it. He'd tugged importantly at the hem of the dark cloth jacket. Then he had stood up straight and put his hand out to the third person in the shack, who had been squatting in a corner while he dressed. 

"Give it to me," he said. "I'm ready." 

Jaro Kozlan, the lynx of the mountains, stood and came to him with a smile, and set the pistol into Mariz's outstretched palm. 

"All our hopes go with you," said Jaro Kozlan. The heart of Mariz had filled at these words, and he didn't trust himself to answer. 

They had left together, Jaro Kozlan going ahead of him down the mud path. Mariz had hoped to see other village boys while he was in such august company. He had been warned not to tell anyone about the journey he was going to take, so he had not been able to brag and see the envious, awed faces of his friends. He would have liked to tell at least his best friend Radi. In a way, he felt cheated. He had dreamed of a farewell party, such as men got when they headed down-mountain during the _loffrack_ time, after the crops were in, when they would be away all winter working in Vuro or the big villages of the foothills. That's what he had imagined a month ago when Jaro Koslan had asked him to make this trip, and he'd stood straight and proud and accepted without fear. 

Well, there could be no party of farewell for him; he understood now that that had been a childish hope. Still, he would like to meet at least one of his companions from the village school, who could then tell the others: "I saw him as he left. He was stone-faced and didn't say where he was going. But Jaro Koslan was beside him, so I knew." However, Mariz remained disappointed, because it was still completely dark and no one at all was on the path. 

Where the path joined a wide dirt track, a truck was waiting. It was the same greenish, battered one he had ridden in before, with the same lopsided man behind the wheel whose left shoulder was higher than his right and who kept a rolled cigarette between pressed lips and barely acknowledged him with a flick of his eyes. Mariz climbed up beside the man. From the high seat he raised a hand in farewell to Jaro Kozlan, a brief gesture that he thought was reserved and belied the importance of his journey. This reserve struck him as the height of manfulness. Jaro Kozlan lifted a hand in reply, which was glorious. Mariz wished for more than that, but he didn't know what.

The driver pulled out. They wound down the mountain flanks, carefully at first where the road was rough and twisted, then faster where the dirt changed to pavement and the road widened and followed the mountain's contour into Vuro city. This road later flowed onto a big, fast road with many cars and they raced along it like a leaf in a roiled creek. They passed fields and gentle hills and posts with signs on them that he couldn't read. At the village school, children learned to write numbers and add and subtract. They were taught to write their names and speak proper Karthic and recite prayers. The only boys who learned more were those sent by their families down the mountain to live with relatives and attend the larger schools in the Karth towns of the foothills. Mariz and his friends pitied and despised those boys, who came back occasionally and reported that their new school lasted all day and used books and paper, and they had to sit still at indoor tables for hours. 

Some time later the majestic city of Sokhrina unfolded in front of him and his pulse began to race. And soon after, they were at a familiar corner surrounded by big stone buildings and lights that flashed colors where the streets came together. The driver pulled into his usual turning-around place and pointed toward the gold dome of the Krindal that shone in the young morning sun. Mariz nodded and climbed out without a word. He began walking toward the dome, and as he walked he repeated to himself Jaro Koslan's words. _All our hopes go with you._ The truck drove by him in a spurt of gravel. 

That had been an hour ago. In the lobby, he'd been glad to find his favorite bench waiting empty, as if it were expecting him. He been restless and overeager at first, but within a few minutes he settled down and mastered his nerves. As his anxiety dissipated, the allure of the red fabric began to increase its pull on him. Once in a while, he allowed one finger to trail along it surreptitiously. He continued to watch the sliding doors of the box out of the corner of his eye, as Jaro Kozlan had recommended, while pretending to be uninterested in it. Several times the doors opened and men or women came out. Each time, Mariz recognized no one and was disappointed. On his two previous visits he had recognized the man with ease, having studied pictures Jaro Koslan had given him. The pictures had been torn from magazines; they showed a smirking man with a dark mole high on the left cheek. Both times, the man and his companions had walked out of the elevator and crossed the lobby while Mariz watched carefully with a false casualness, the way you watch a dangerous animal when you are unarmed. This time, though, would be different. 

Stiffness crept into his legs and he began to doubt himself. A man in uniform spoke briefly to him in Arbezi. Mariz shrugged. He was relieved when the fellow, after an angry look, moved on. Mariz studied his back as he walked away. The danger of the moment had stopped him from feeling anything when the man spoke to him, but now that the danger was past, he began to get angry. He had been surrounded by Arbezi all three times he came to this city, and had overheard it in the mountains during the war - but no one had ever spoken it straight to his face before. 

Almost six years before, Arbezi men in trucks had come up the mountains. He hadn't understood anything when the fighting first started, except that in his village, the grown men talked about it all the time, and his mother became quieter, and the sound of gunshots was often heard on the lower slopes. His village was so high that it saw no battles, but sometimes Jaro Kozlan, the Lynx, appeared from time to time leading a line of fierce bearded men into the village caves, where they hid out for a few days and Mariz and his friends ran errands for them and brought them trays of food from their mothers' kitchens. After a few months of this, his father went away and didn't come back. It wasn't _loffrack_ time so Mariz knew, although his mother wouldn't admit it, that his father was away being a hero fighter of the Karth.

Early one morning the sounds of gunshots had come closer than usual, and he had gone with some other boys to see the war. The three of them had leaped and skinned and wriggled joyfully down the slope, coming to a stop where the mountain path gave a view of the road. They saw a strange truck sitting still, with two men in the bed squatting beside a sort of oversized gun propped up on poles. Two more men were smoking inside the truck's cab. He and his friends began debating the merits of wriggling closer for a better look, when suddenly the soldiers in the bed of the truck came alert and gestured toward the hillside opposite the boys' hiding place. Mariz had strained forward. The men swung the mounted gun and pointed it toward the hillside. Mariz saw what they saw then: five Karth men in tightly belted _kofranus_ were emerging from the forest cover. They had come down one of the mountain paths, probably from the village of Toora. They were making for the road, which was bent so that they couldn't see the truck that held the Arbezi soldiers. They were talking amongst themselves and had their rifles not in their hands but slung uselessly on their shoulders. Then they saw, and one of them cried out in fear.

The mounted gun blatted. The Karth men fell back in a chaos of splayed limbs, landing on top of each other. Mariz watched and for a moment he didn't understand why the Karth men had all stumbled at the same time. There was still some movement among them - arms and legs shifting like trapped snakes. Then the Arbezi soldiers fired again and the Karth men jumped a little as they lay on the ground. After that, the gun was silent. The truck engine roared to life and the Arbezi men backed up, turned roughly to face down the mountain, and drove away. 

The sliding doors opened again. The man from the magazine picture stepped into the lobby without any fanfare, smiling and displaying the mole high on his cheek. For a moment Mariz forgot what he was supposed to do. 

The man paused to address a word to the hotel girl who stood nearby. He was not alone - like the previous times, he was flanked by burly men. Mariz knew that these men were his guards and they were armed. They would kill Mariz as soon as they saw his pistol. Therefore the important thing was to move fast and shoot straight. If he raised his weapon but failed to pull the trigger, or missed his mark, he would be remembered as a failure and a coward rather than a hero. His mother would be tormented not just by the loss of her only son but by the shame of his last moments, until she couldn't hold her head up. They were a small family with few male relations living, so she would have little protection against the sneers and poverty that would be her fate. 

Fleetingly he wished things had happened differently: that he had not been so open in his admiration of Jaro Koslan and that Jaro Koslan had never noticed him and favored him with so much interest. He would be on the mountain with his flock now if he had not been noticed. But there was no going back. His fingers closed numbly around his gun. 

He was a good shot, and had brought down a lynx once, mid-leap, when it threatened his flock. In the old days he hadn't known what mattered in this world: getting revenge and defending the Karth people. Jaro Koslan had opened his eyes to the endless struggle and the glorious sacrifices Karth fighters had made for generations in defense of liberty and honor. He used to be a boy but now he was a man. And in a moment, he told himself sternly, he would be a legend. 

He fired, swift and true, just as his target turned. The man's face registered surprise and Mariz exulted because he knew he had done well; the shot was good - but then everything shattered into glass bits as the man clapped his hand to his throat and roared wetly, falling back, and beside him a bodyguard snarled with rage and whirled and his cold eyes went straight to Mariz, and his hand came up with a glint of metal in it. "All our hopes," Mariz said, just as the spike of pain burst through his flesh.

.

Eight time zones west, it was still night. 

Angel Morjo slept in a narrow bed in Boson beneath a ceiling that had a large yellow water-stain. She twitched and stiffened. Sleep had sucked her back into the past, where the arms of the dead reached out of the ground to snatch at her ankles. She whimpered and muttered a word in Arbezi. Then she cried out sharply against her pillow.

In Virginia, Jamie Callahan slept beside his wife. For a hundred and forty-seven minutes more, he flickered through insubstantial dreams of places full of color and noise that he'd loved in his younger days. Then, just after four a.m., the phone beside his bed began to ring.


	5. June 3, Hartstown VA

"Dead," Theresa said. "Really?"

Outside the bright cube of their kitchen, the night lay still and thick against the windows. He still found it strange that nights in the leafy upscale suburbs of Virginia were darker than any of the far-flung corners of the earth where he used to find himself - darker than the rural outskirts of Managua during a blackout, darker than the caravan trek into the Gobi he'd taken with Ter for their five-year anniversary. Those places had been lightless in a thin tense way that honed each passing minute to its sharpest edge. Here in the suburbs the night was different: it sat on the houses and streets like sludge and the whole neighborhood seemed to smother in it. 

The sleeves of the Georgetown sweatshirt were covering Ter's small hands so only the fingertips poked out. She regarded the steaming cup of herbal tea he had set in front of her but she didn't reach for it. After the phone call he had watched her sleep for another ten minutes, dazed, his thoughts disjointed: images of Azor crowding up against the plain fact of her face crumpled against the pillow and her hair flowing out like dark water. He had thought about not waking her at all. It seemed to him that a different man wouldn't bother - a different man would be already gone, letting her wake to a note on the kitchen table: _Work called. Emergency meeting in DC; don't know what it's about. Will call soon. Love._ That wasn't his style, though. Anyway, it would just mean more trouble later. She'd find the note in the morning and puzzle over it for a minute - and half an hour later she'd be leaning over the sink darkening her eyelashes, coloring in her lips, when the anchorwoman on TV would mention Azor's death. It wouldn't be the top story this morning, or anything close. They'd mention it as part of the international-news roundup, a thing of little importance. Callahan already knew how they'd put it. "Also today, on the shores of the Black Sea, an assassination has taken the life of Arbeztan's minister of the Interior. Azor Mirtallev, ardent nationalist and a controversial figure who was beloved by many, was shot dead this morning in the capital, in the lobby of a luxury hotel."

So he'd watched Theresa and touched a strand of her dark hair, and then his hand had gone to the smooth curve of her shoulder. She had jumped wide awake at his first touch, her eyes startled, then quickly fearful. As if she had been braced for bad news even in her sleep. 

Now she was drawn up tall and cool as chilled glass. He could see under her left temple a fine pulse, and he could see, also, the twitch at her jaw. The table was slick under his palms. She said again, "Azor Mirtallev, dead. You're sure."

He nodded. The phone had rung like a knife ripping through a curtain. The voice on the other end had been instantly recognizable even after four years. _Quentin here._ _I need to see you at my office._ _Mirtallev's dead._

The words hadn't made sense the first time. The second time, they sorted themselves out in his brain while Quentin tersely recited the relevant facts. Azor Mirtallev had stepped off the elevator of the Hotel Krindal on his way to breakfast. A assassin had been waiting in the lobby. A bullet had torn open Azor's throat. Callahan understood what was being said, but he rejected it. Azor couldn't be dead because Callahan didn't feel his death; not yet. So it was true but it wasn't. It would be true later. It was like light emitted from stars that traveled for years before striking its destination: the death had happened but its impact was still in transit and had yet to reach the part of him that would eventually feel gutted by it. 

"So. Karma finally comes through," Theresa remarked drily. "Too bad it took so long."

Azor was dead. The words continued to roll over and over rootlessly in his mind. Was Azor dead? If it were true, how could the suburban night still be so quiet? If he were really gone, the world would be crashing off its axis. There should be lights going on up and down the neighborhood, noise, screams, dazed neighbors pouring out onto the street. People in pajamas should be banging on his door, yelling, "Have you heard? Is it true?" 

Instead, the world slept on. 

But the silence wasn't complete. Quentin, roaring into the receiver, certainly hadn't been silent. Callahan could picture him perfectly, jowled and red-faced as he barked out his demand for a meeting. Quentin had always gone red instantly in times of high emotion. He had been an apoplectic crimson during Callahan's final, cataclysmic week. Only at their last meeting had his face come back to nearly a normal color, when he stood beside the company lawyer and pointed with one cold finger at the bottom of the new contract, where a blank line awaited Callahan's signature. 

That had been four years ago and they hadn't spoken since. Now, Quentin was calling him in the middle of the night. That was the other element that had unseated Callahan from his sense of reality. Quentin had called _him._ Had summoned him. When morning came, Callahan would walk in the doors of number 23 and take the elevator to the fourth floor and stand in that office for the first time in nearly forever. And maybe amnesty was at hand, or at least opportunity. So alongside his disturbed thoughts about Azor, there was this other thing: that in a few hours he'd be in Washington, facing Quentin, making his play for a second chance. 

He wondered who had called Quentin just before Quentin called him. He liked the thought of phone lines lighting up all over the world at Azor's fall, from Sokhrina to Washington, Moscow, New York, Warsaw, Athens - a silver web of lines running fast like lit fuses out across Europe and Asia and America, bursting like miniature explosions in bedrooms and offices in every time zone. People would be shouting and stumbling into their trousers and shaving hurriedly and rushing off to meetings. If Azor knew - if he could see this, wherever he was - it would make him happy. He would smack his chest over it and grin: "See? A poor boy like me, up from Sokhrina's alleys. I have left my mark. A good thing, Jamie - the most important thing. Because life is short, eh?" 

Theresa's eyes were dark, and her face smooth and hard. He wished she understood about Azor. He had told her about his youngest sister's death right here in this kitchen, at this same table. Theresa had put her arms around him from behind, leaned her cheek against his back and not said a word. They had grown into each other, the way trees sometimes did in the West Virginia woods behind his childhood home, their trunks twisted and clamped together and shaped by each other. That was why he couldn't leave her, any more than he could unzip his skin and let his organs slide out of his body. Now he wanted those arms around him again. But of course this was different to her.

Azor: shot in the throat; dead in an instant. 

"It's not even five," he told her. "You'll be exhausted at work. Why don't you go back to bed."

Her eyes narrowed. "Jamie. Why are they calling you?" 

There was a fierceness to the words. It was the question he'd known was coming. 

"I'm the media analyst for Arbeztan," he said. "I guess the Arbezi media needs analyzing, right about now." Let her think that it was Elizabeth, his supervisor in M.A., who had made the call. There was no reason for her to think of Quentin. 

And yet she did. "You cultivated Azor for three years," she said levelly. Her gaze sliced into him. 

"Long time gone." 

"Still. You were closer to him than anyone." Connections sparked behind her eyes. "They need you back now. They'll need your insight into whoever going to be appointed in his place. What that will mean for US policy."

 _Closer to him than anyone._ He liked the sound of that. During almost three years in Sokhrina, he and Azor had painted the town together, and there was no one like Azor for painting the town. At Azor's summer house in the Nirte district, the kids had called him Uncle Zhaimi. They went to practically every bout of the _gazhents_ together: traditionally a place where men went without women. Azor had a wide circle of friends, all of Sokhrina was his friend, but only Callahan was _me ranekh_ to him: my brother. It had been good. Even late in the war when the stories started leaking out, he hadn't completely believed what people were saying. He'd wanted to defend Azor to the end. But State had put its foot down and gotten him out of Sokhrina, settled him with a UN peacekeeping unit for a little PR. He hadn't spoken to Azor since. 

"I don't know about that, Ter. It's been a long time. They've got an embassy full of people they can call on." But she was right, of course. There could be no other reason for Quentin's call. 

"The trade negotiations. The military base we want near the east border." Her intellect whirred. "You knew his inner circle, didn't you. You'll know the replacement." She remained motionless and her next words seemed not hers, but something channeled through her lips by an outside force. "The company will want your expertise again. And you're glad, because maybe this is your big chance to get back in."

"Just last night, you were wanting me to get back in. You were offering to divorce me in order to up my chances." 

"Azor Mirtallev," she spat. "Marchev." 

"They whistled for me, and I'm going. What do you expect me to do, Ter? They sign my paycheck." He put a certain finality into his tone, knowing she would take the hint. Sure enough, she nodded and looked away. They had both been company people, trained to keep a respectful distance from each other's secrets.

The glass pane of separation between himself and Azor's death was starting to crack. Images were shoving themselves forward in his mind. Azor loping down the walkway of his summer house with his bodyguard beside him, climbing into the back seat of the embassy car and grabbing Callahan for a bearhug. Azor pouring _rachkye_ in his study, his eyes lit bright as he explained the morose romantic verses of the medieval poet-king Dalik Hazan. Finally, Azor falling onto the sunlit blue tiles of the Krindal lobby with blood gushing from his throat. 

Theresa judged Azor but she didn't know him. She'd never met him; all she knew was the headlines. A line bubbled into his mind from listless childhood summers at VBS camp in the church basement, sitting Indian-style with all the other bored kids, on a rug that was nubby and green and smelled of chemicals. _Before the cock crows, you will deny me three times._ It struck him suddenly, like a sucker punch. He'd never call Azor now. He was all out of chances. 

"You want to know the truth, Ter? It wasn't just company orders. I didn't just cultivate him because I had to. It was more than that. We were really friends." 

They'd talked about Azor only once before. Four years ago, a couple weeks after he came back from Arbeztan, he had woken her in the dark and ground his face against her shoulder. In the morning she had thrown her resignation down on Quentin's desk. Well, this time the damage wouldn't be as great. It would just be another black mark for her to hold against him. "I loved him like a brother, actually," he said. "That's the fucking truth."

He waited, knowing she was preparing to fling her knives. But she surprised him. She dropped her head and turned away as if she were suddenly too tired to pursue him further. Something fragile showed in the curve of her mouth, just before her dark hair came down like a falling curtain.

"Of course," she said. "I know that. You think I didn't understand? That much was obvious all along."


	6. June 3, Washington DC

Downtown DC was springing back to life as it did every morning, like a mechanical toy made of slickly greased gears, fresh paint on rust, and striving concealed engines. The meeting wasn't until eight, so Callahan roved the streets and watched the pretzel-kiosks set up and the buses huff past, the traffic swelling as the sky brightened. Finally he entered the C23 building, which gleamed as it did in his memory. He was stung to see that the lobby decor had been changed. The security guards had changed, too. In the old days he would have entered as a VIP and they would have known him by sight and waved him on. Now he went humbly to the desk and handed over his ID. They inspected it minutely and called upstairs to ensure he was an expected guest and not a terrorist or mass murderer. 

Coming off the elevator and turning into the outer office, his first sight was Corinne. She was in her usual place, no different from the last time he'd come through these doors. She was licking her index finger and flipping through a stack of papers. The sight made him stop short. How could he have forgotten her? 

He stopped where he was and stood still, waiting for her to notice him. She was engrossed in the papers in front of her, though, and a long minute passed while he leaned up against the wall, anticipating, finally outright grinning, waiting for it. And then she turned in his direction, reaching for the coffee beside her. "Oh!" she said, jumping, pressing a hand over her chest. "My gracious. You nearly killed me. James." And out came the famous Corinne smile. 

"You've missed me, haven't you," he said. "The place hasn't been the same without me."

She laughed and came out around her desk to wrap him in a bone-cracking hug. She looked good, her coppery skin still glowing, and her hair lighter than it had been and puffed up in fancy curls. "If I miss anyone," she retorted, "it's your wife. But yes, you too. How have you been? And how's Theresa?"

"She's fine. She works for Vision International," he said. "It's a medical nonprofit." 

"Good for her." 

He heard about her home and husband. "And your son?" he asked. The last time he'd seen Corinne, the boy had been facing a jail term for possession with intent. Usually Callahan would be too practiced a diplomat to ask - but Corinne was practically shining, and he hadn't missed that the wallboard beside her desk was now covered with baby pictures.

"Settled down, praise God. He's been working on the Metro, taking night classes toward his degree. Two-year-old daughter, too." Corinne pointed to the board. Callahan saw a frowzy-headed child progressing from gummy smiles to toddlerhood. He was glad that the past four years had been good for one of them, at least. Corinne, born and raised on St. Thomas, carried the warmth of the tropics wherever she went. 

Her phone rang. "Yes, sir, he is." She winked at him as she hung up. "He's ready. Go on in."

Quentin was exactly what he remembered: ruddy and stiff in posture, with jowls like a mastiff and a forthright demeanor. "He leads with his teeth," Theresa used to say of him. 

He doubted Quentin found him unchanged as well. Laboring in a basement office, lecturing twice a week at Theta base to young people who still had a future, had diminished him. He returned to this office a lesser man. 

"Short notice," Quentin said without preamble. "Thanks for coming in. Interesting developments always hit at four a.m." He was not at all embarrassed to summon the exiled serf back to the castle. Then again, why should he be?

"They do." He took the chair Quentin motioned him towards. There would be no warm reunion between them. "So. Azor is dead. It's confirmed?"

Quentin nodded. "The assassin was Karthic. A separatist, presumably."

That gave him pause. From the first moment, he had assumed it was a rival crime family. Azor had come up through the ranks of the Rachatan before polishing himself into something like respectability and turning his hand to politics. "They're sure? So quickly?"

"He was taken alive. Shot in the abdomen by one of Mirtallev's bodyguards. He's out of surgery, they say. And expected to make it." 

"The secret police will interrogate him, then." Callahan had been in the cells of GC once; had seen the guards working on a Karth insurgent He winced internally. Well, it was justice. The man who killed Azor should suffer. 

Quentin said, "Mirtallev's protege, Karel Simontov, has already been named to take his place. I think you knew him well?" 

"Yes." Siontov's promotion was no surprise. He had always been a dependable presence at Azor's elbow. 

"His first move was to make us a proposal. He offered a quid pro quo. Big stuff. He wants us to help him eliminate the Karth terrorist cells from the mountains." 

"That's a tall order." He understood Simontov's position: the man had to strike back against the Karth if he wanted any claim to Azor's mantle. "If that's the quo, what's the quid? He better be offering us something good." 

"He is. He's offering the mining treaty." 

Callahan stared. A cold thrill crawled over him. "Jesus," he breathed. 

The Kar-Paval mountains, four hundred miles long, marked Arbeztan's eastern border. They were famous for two things. The first was the Karth people, wild and savage, who scrabbled a living among its sheer black rocks and who for centuries had demanded autonomy and defied Sokhrina's rule. The second was a virgin deposit of mineral wealth that was said, on preliminary readings, to rival any in the world. Mining rights had been discussed on and off for two decades, a prize sought by every American administration in Callahan's memory. He and Azor had discussed it repeatedly. Azor had wanted favored-nation trade status, which would have been granted. However, tensions with the Karth were high, and Azor had been unwilling to pacify them by granting even a portion of the autonomy they sought. The combination of hostile terrain and hostile people had spooked US mining companies. The talks were never more than half-hearted. 

The full weight of the offer sank in. "So we'd have a free hand to go into the mountains and secure the area to our satisfaction. Move the Karth out of the way, put Simontov on firm ground, forge an ironclad alliance. And then tap the mines. That's... certainly intriguing."

"You were close to Simontov, weren't you. You and he and Mirtallev were the three musketeers. Way back when."

The _way back when_ could have been a deliberate insult, but from Quentin it was probably just mindless crudeness. "I knew him," he said.

"Tell me about him. You were on the inside. What sort of man is he?" 

"So there's interest in taking on this proposal? Be careful. The Arbeztan military has broken its teeth on the mountains over and over. They can level the cities in the foothills, but the insurgents have always danced up the mountains out of their reach. Getting involved would be no fucking joke. They say the terrain up there is murder." 

Quentin flicked his shoulder dismissively. "Simontov," he said. "What sort of man?"

Quentin had always peremptory and devoid of small talk. He made no effort to sell himself, and this had seemed refreshing when Callahan first met him, when his brusqueness and lack of protocol proved the difference between the foreign service and the company. The foreign service dealt in smiles, handshakes, and soirees; it was America's polite mask. The company was the dark foundation of US foreign policy. It worked in the shadows and made no bones about its goal of gaining advantage for America in any way possible. Quentin had laid this out for him when he was recruited, speaking hard truths about patriotism and realpolitik. The company, Quentin said, appreciated Callahan's intelligence and his talent for being charming; it would throw him into the deep end, it would demand his soul, it would strain his relationships, but it would offer challenges worthy of him. He had debated for half a day before accepting. 

He had been shocked, when he came in for his signing, to see that a woman was already seated in the chair in front of Quentin's desk. Her hair was caught back with a pearl clip, one he had given her two Christmases ago. A contract lay in front of her and a pen was in her hand. She was so out of place here that his brain couldn't make sense of her presence. He had gaped at her and she had gaped back. Then Quentin had said with dry amusement, "We always do it this way when we land a couple. I like to see the expressions on your faces. Mr. Bond: meet Mrs. Bond." 

Through the next thirteen years, Quentin had been both his immediate superior and Theresa's. He was the only superior Callahan saw regularly: he gave Callahan his assignments and served as a conduit to the company bosses and as a liaison to the Foreign Service. He pulled mysterious strings behind the scenes to ensure that Callahan's double-life - working openly for the state department and quietly for the company - ran smoothly. "I take care of my people," he said once. He had lived up to that statement, except for the very end, when he threw Callahan under the bus and crushed him and left him for dead in M.A. 

Now he said, "Tell me your personal observations of Simontov. Will he wield as much power behind the throne as Mirtallev did? Is he inclined toward the US? If we don't accept his proposal and go after his separatists, will he turn to Russia?" 

"Is that why you summoned me?" Callahan said. "To tap my inside knowledge of the new minister of the interior?" 

"Well, either that, or to watch me post rhetorical questions in your presence." 

"All right." He shrugged. "I'll tell you everything I know." 

He folded his hands on the table and recited in a monotone. "The Sokhrina Courier takes a favorable view of Simontov. The life-and-style photos showed him and Azor together a lot, at sporting events and ski holidays and the Sokhrina Opera's opening night. He is generally portrayed as capable and a staunch nationalist who never deviates from his mentor's ideas. The Globe, which runs slightly to the left, has questioned Simontov's independence in the past and portrayed him as something of a puppet, but has avoided outright negative articles or editiorials. Among the lesser papers, only the old-guard Communist daily Mirror, based in Beztan's second city of Partiyev, criticized him openly. However the Mirror's circulation began dropping off steadily even before the war and has little influence on popular opinion." 

He kept a poker face. As rebellion went, it wasn't much. But a man needed his self-respect. 

Quentin stared at him for a long moment. "Excellent," he said at last. "You've been practicing that since you got my call." 

"Longer than that. Four years longer."

"You're bitter. It looks bad on you. What's past is past." 

"For you it's past. Not so much for me." 

"That's not my concern. I didn't ask you here as a media analyst."

"Then I must be here as a disgraced former employee. Well. That's certainly much better."

Quentin laughed, a staccato burst, and some of the tension went out of the room. "As you say." He tapped on the desk. "Simontov. Your personal assessment of him."

He could refuse, he supposed. And what would that win him? If he had any chance at all of getting back in the game, this was it. At this juncture, a smart diplomat would swallow his pride and look for a way to exploit Quentin's need of him. 

He considered. "The first thing to know is that Simontov isn't Azor. He's serious, thoughtful, straightforward. He was always a balance for Azor's excesses. He'll do what's best for Arbeztan. Right now, though, he has to be worried about securing his own political position. He'll need to keep the backing of Azor's friends in the parliament as well as in the Rachatan crime syndicate - who, thanks to Azor, have their fingers in a lot of pies. Everyone who matters will be shouting for vengeance against the Karth right now. Simontov needs to provide it or he'll be seen as a weakling, a disloyal friend, and a poor substitute for the man's greatness. He won't last long unless he strikes the Kar-Paval hard and fast. So, with his back against the wall, he's turned to us. It's an opportunity." 

He had a sudden recollection: Karel looking on as Azor climbed on a table at Club Nadia and dragged Callahan up after him. "To us!" he had shouted, hoisting their clasped hands overhead in the gesture used by victors at the _gashents_. A blur of onlookers, mostly Rachatan men he suspected, laughed riotously and lifted their glasses. "To Jamie and Azor, the kings of Arbeztan!" 

Quentin nodded. "Thank you for that assessment. Did you remain in contact with either of them, these past years: Simontov or Mirtallev?"

"No." 

Aftet what he'd seen at Marchev, he felt nothing but disgust and hatred toward Azor and toward himself for the part he'd played. But as years passed, there were moments when he weakened. He remembered all the nights of laughter and the long talks they'd had in private, about philosophy and women and the brevity and joy of human existence. He knew that if he called Azor, there would be no recriminations, no bitterness over the past years of silence. Azor would simply be delighted: "Jamie! You will come to my summer house, yes? When - perhaps tomorrow? Come, my dear friend. It has been too long!"

Quentin was regarding him with cool seriousness. "I've spoken with your supervisor in MA. Your reviews are very good. She speaks well of you."

"Ah. Yes." He returned to the present. "My reports to her are punctual. My fluency rating is four-plus. The prep class I teach at Theta is thorough. It's kind of you to notice."

"I take it you'd like to get out." 

That wasn't even worth responding to. Finally Quentin shook his head. "You still blame me, and not the choices you made? That's a worry."

He did not want to continue down this road. "I'll help the cause, Al. If you want me to brief Erika and the embassy staff on Simontov, I can do that." He hesitated. He had been considering something In a side compartment of his brain. 

He had, maybe, a trump card. And while he didn't want to play it too soon, he might not get another chance. He plunged forward. "There's something else," he said. "The leader of the Karth militants is a man named Jaro Koslan."

"Yes. What about him?'" 

"I know him," Callahan said. 

His words had the desired effect. Quentin was silent for a long moment. "No one knows him," he said. "He's barely been seen." 

"In the last days of the war, you remember I was posted to a UN peacekeeping force. I went into the Marchev detention camp. Spent three weeks there. Jaro Koslan was one of the prisoners. He was in the infirmary for a long time. He spoke good Arbezi. He told me about himself. I remember him well." 

"I see." Quentin's poker face didn't fool Callahan. Jaro Kozlan had been, until a few hours ago, of no concern to America. But if the US was going to back Arbeztan's military adventures against him, he was suddenly of great interest indeed. "Go on." 

"He talked to me about the Karth perspective and their various grievances and why they rose up during the civil war. There were another dozen or so Karth men among the prisoners, and Kozlan was clearly their leader even then. What I know about might be of interest. Specifically, it might be of interest to Karel Simontov. It would give him reassurance that we're capable, that we know the enemy, and that we're seriously considering his offer." 

"You want to meet with Simontov to take the talks forward. You think it should be you."

"I'm the best choice."

They were like two dogs at a standoff. "Tell me this," Quentin said. "On a slightly different subject. Do you speak any Karthic?" 

Callahan frowned. "No. No one speaks Karthic except the Karth. Why?" 

"Mirtallev's assassin is going to be brought here for questioning. We want his information about the Karth resistance." 

"Brought where? To Theta Block? You're kidding." 

"The Arbezi questioned him right after they took him in, but they couldn't get anything out of him. They've taken him to surgery to patch him up, but if we let them keep him, they'll just beat him to death." 

"Why not use one of our other sites, then?" 

"He's got a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He'll die without decent medical care. Plus, he speaks nothing but Karthic and we have to find a translator somewhere. Do you have any ideas about securing one?" 

His mind went in several directions at once. No one in Sokhrina or in Simontov's circle would speak Karthic. A few Karth probably did live in the city, keeping a low profile and sticking to their own kind. They would not volunteer to interrogate a countryman. There were few Karth immigrants in the US. The population had never had much of a diaspora: they mostly kept to themselves, lived their miserable lives, and died in the mountains. Of course, there were exceptions to every rule. 

"I'd have to think about it," he said carefully. 

"You do that." Quentin eyed him dispassionately. "You're valuable. You were an asset. Theresa too. I was sorry to lose you both." 

_You didn't lose me, bastard. You cut me loose._ "So reinstate me." It came out sounding weaker than he'd intended - a plea, not a demand. 

"Reinstatement is no easy task. There's a long list of people who'd have to sign off on it, and those people aren't forgiving of security breaches. But I'll make you a deal. I can get a temporary adjustment on your clearance. As the Arbeztan situation develops, I expect you'll be called on to brief people. I'll send the first round of paperwork through today. That's a step. But permanent reinstatement? That's a whole different level of difficulty." 

He should shut up now, but he couldn't let it go. "I'm wasted in Media Analysis." Jesus, he was disgusted at himself. Four years ago it had felt like this: they had made him beg. And in the end they'd destroyed him anyway.

"You fucked up," said Quentin quietly. "You brought trouble to everyone, first and foremost the company, and also your own wife. You refuse to see it, but you're the only one who does."

"Even if that's true." He swallowed. "I've done my penance."

There was a beat. Quentin pursed his lips and stared down at his desk for a moment. "Our side wants those mines. They want the separatists gone, the region secured, an exclusive treaty to the mountains. That's the bottom line. And they want it very badly." He stood. "Someone will be in touch."


	7. June 4-5, Boston, MA

The T was the worst place for flashbacks. It was like the wardrobe to Narnia, except worse, because the places it flung her into had no fauns and no happy endings.

She was nervous during her morning commute. Flashbacks came in spurts - once you had one, you knew the next was coming. She made it to work without anything terrible happening, but that just made her certain that her mind would attack her on the way home. She tried to resist her mounting dread. Dread made everything worse: it wound her up and primed her brain to be whipped through time and space like a rubber toy on the end of a string. But resisting it didn't actually help; it only wound her up tighter. You couldn't make yourself quit thinking about things once they grabbed hold of you. It was like something a stoner teammate had said at some rowers' party in college, between drags. _Try this, everyone: Stand very still and don't think about a white bear. Don't picture the whiiiite bear._

On the way home she clung to the metal pole for balance and gritted her teeth and waited. It seemed like a miracle when her stop finally came and she made it down the steps and onto the pavement. She crossed the street and stepped under the dingy striped awnings of the K street market, and its shadow dropped around her. Then she reeled back, her stomach lurching. The scene had changed.

She was standing alone in the dark. Railroad tracks were beside her. The night yawned huge and boundless. The train's long iron hulk loomed behind her, its doors still open and its yellow light spilling down the decline. This wasn't Vuro Station - the conductor had thrown the brake early and the city itself still lay five kilometers ahead. Here, there was no sign of human habitation. Under her feet the earth was strange and hard, and in her nostrils the air smelled of burning. It was her first taste of her father's country but she didn't feel any of the triumph she'd imagined. Terror was all. She could not see the arcs of flame over the trees anymore, but she heard another blast and felt the ground tremble.

\-- _Go on to Mirzat,_ she had spat at Carana. _Go play in the waves with your latest boyfriends. Or run back to Prague, why don't you, and tell Jiri you chickened out. But tell him it's okay, because your best friend is going to get it done without you._

\-- _Good. Great! That's my plan. And when you don't come back, at least I'll be able to tell them where to go looking for your body._

She'd been resolute and reckless on the train. She'd taken its protection for granted but now that was all stripped away and she was out in the formless night. Even if she screamed there would be no echo. The trees beyond the tracks stood like rows of soldiers waiting. The train was about to grind off down the track. It would take Carana away and leave her alone here, like a sacrifice to the black: Andromeda chained, awaiting the serpent. The nibbling edge of panic got its teeth into her. Another light flashed above the forest, down the tracks where Vuro waited. A dull boom followed. Her feet were fixed to the dirt like they'd turned to concrete.

The train door, her one escape, was still open behind her. And all she had to do was turn back. Reboard the train and admit to Carana that she was scared. That she'd been wrong. 

But she couldn't do that. 

She thought of Orpheus. He had walked through a darkness deeper than this. _Don't look back_ \- that was the charm that would keep her safe. She'd make the promise Orpheus had made: when the train roared off, she'd keep her face forward and not turn back to watch it go. She gripped her own upper arms, digging in her nails. The forest would protect her and let her pass. She'd find someplace to wait for daybreak and she'd just hang on, one minute at a time. She could do that. The sun would rise sooner or later. She just had to be brave. She took her first step toward the crouching trees and whatever lay hidden there. 

Then she was back under the awning with the sun-beaten street all around.

There was a terrible thing about the world, a secret no one talked about. It had two layers, one on top of the other. The one you saw - the surface one that everyone agreed on - could peel away at any moment. It was like the veneer of human-ness people had, a thin cover for the fact that they were made of meat and bone and could tear apart like any other object. A kind of horror underpinned everything and was more real than the facade that covered it. Most of the time it lay hidden behind reflecting glass, but flip a switch, change the angle of the light, and the facade fell away. Then you learned the truth: that you'd never escaped. That everything you thought you'd outrun was still all around you. And it wanted you back. 

Cars rumbled past. She reached the corner of North Beacon, where this time she turned her face away from Mila's Boutique. She moved her feet numbly one after the other, until she was across River and then Trent. She drew even with the empty lot where the Brazilians ran and leaped and crashed in all their bronze splendor. She walked the gauntlet of eyes and sneers outside the Red Moon Cafe. Outside the poster shop, two boys with face-piercings squatted against the brick wall. They were skinny and lithe, natural as wild animals in olive green cargo pants ragged at the hem, t-shirts with logos that meant nothing to her, and skateboards at their feet. On the next block, a Russian couple was engaged in a passionate argument outside the pawn shop.

She had thought about buying a gun from that pawn shop. She thought it might help her relax. With a gun, you knew who you were. You could protect yourself, and you also had the means for a quick exit anytime. Not that she would off herself; she wasn't crazy - _not anymore, right?_ \- and things weren't so bad. But it would be nice to know she had that option. 

Unless maybe it would make things worse. With a gun in her apartment, maybe she'd just stare at it all the time and whip herself up to use it. _C'mon, give it a taste. Put the barrel in your mouth. You too scared?_ The taunting might get too loud, and then she'd be obligated to prove something to shut it up. And if she shot and botched the job, she'd wind up in a nursing home with a permanent drool. It would be ridiculous to miss a shot on your own damn head, but you never knew: you might lose your nerve at the last moment and jerk your arm out of position.

It was a moot point anyway. It wasn't like she could afford a gun. 

Once she got home, she set up the things she needed on the floor beside the sofa: a mug, her wine, the remote. Really she should take a shower, get it out of the way before she started drinking, but she shrank from it. She hated dealing with her body. Instead she drank half the wine and spent the next few hours dozing in front of an old movie she couldn't follow. When she woke up it was ten and she was hungry. But there was nothing to eat in the house. She'd scarfed most of it down the night before, waking every couple hours from her usual dark dreams to find solace in the kitchen. She'd finished off the rest that morning. 

She liked the dingy grocery store on Harvard Street that stayed open until eleven. Well, she didn't exactly _like_ it, with its narrow aisles and smell of wilted vegetables in bins that didn't get cleaned too often. But she was anonymous among the immigrants and poor people who had too many problems of their own to look her way. She piled ramen into her basket. She decided on a head of lettuce, then a pint of ice cream. It would be her last pint ever, she promised herself. If you were going to stop eating ice cream, you needed the one last pint that you said your goodbyes to. The fact that she had made this promise often did not decrease its potency. She'd eat the one last ice cream and then she'd live on the lettuce and ramen and make it last a week.

At the end of the aisle she looked through the glass at the frozen orange juice cans. She hesitated. You had to think of the price. You had to think of how far away the next payday was, and whether you wanted to save money by turning off the AC; and was orange juice worth it? You had to think a little bit about why you were really buying it: maybe because you wanted vitamin C and maybe to mix with vodka. And secretly you knew that once you bought it, of course you _would_ by vodka - because who were you kidding? - and that recalled the growing danger that you were becoming too much like your father who'd drunk himself to death, and it hadn't been pretty. Your thoughts went round and round for a while. Finally you realized that you were the kind of person who agonized over frozen orange juice. And then you turned away disgustedly.

In a past life she'd made her decisions on impulse. She'd applied to college behind her father's back. Senior year, she'd shoved the TeachPrague application in the mail without thinking what she'd do if they accepted her. Finally, she'd boarded the train. She'd had a trick of closing her eyes, crossing her fingers, and taking a running leap off the nearest cliff. No longer.

A big man had come up silently behind her and she nearly banged into him. _"Mevarrh,"_ he said. Then he grinned. He was missing one of his canines. _"Mevarrh cartakje."_

It was an instant before she understood. Then she pulled away in fright so her back was against the cold glass. He was still grinning. There was malice in his smile; he was watching her with enjoyment. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe; well over six feet and dressed in workman's clothes. He was watching the effect of his words on her body. She could not stop herself from hunching back against the glass, staring at him bug-eyed. He knew she was afraid, and he liked it.

 _"Mevarrh cartakje, doma ratun ze Bostona."_ She understood the gist without meaning to and without wanting to. _"Mountain girl; it's nice to see you in Boston."_ He switched to English but the accent was still Arbezi; the sneer was the one in her nightmares. "Don't you remember me? I'm coming for you, _cartakje_. For the honor of Azor Mirtallev, I'm going to rip your filthy Karth tongue out and that will just be the beginning. We'll have our revenge, bitch. And we'll make it last."

The man's eyes traveled slowly down her body, lingering on her waist as his leer broadened. Then he turned in no hurry and sauntered out of the aisle.

It was what she'd always known. Under the surface the real horror remained, hidden only by the thinnest rind of make-believe. You had never escaped. The bad things were all around you. They had always been there: barely disguised, and waiting.

She stood where she was. She stood for a long time. She had known many moments like this. A sudden turn happened and real met unreal and you couldn't tell which was which. Your eyes and ears told you things that clashed with your understanding of the world and the patterns you were used to. You argued against your fears, like holding up a candle in a cave, hoping the shadows would be revealed as rocks and not slavering beasts. She looked up and down the aisle. She felt the glass door behind her. Aside from the Arbezi man who had reared up suddenly and then vanished, nothing else seemed unreal. She took hold of the handle of her cart and it was solid in her grip. Around her, shoppers were peering at cans and boxes. She could see the checkout line snaking along. The man was nowhere in sight. She did not know what to do. An Asian woman pushed past her with a glare of irritation. 

It had been a hallucination, she told herself. She was not in danger; she was just losing her mind. It wouldn't be the first time; she had a history of seeing things that weren't there. And what was she going to do: wait here forever? She edged forward and took her place in line, glanced around her, paid distractedly, then went fearfully out through the automatic door. The street was busy, with plenty of locals still out and the streetlights brightly burning. This was a public place where nothing could happen to her. She began walking, not looking behind her because that would be inviting monsters. A few people seemed to glance her way with sinister concern. But she always felt eyes on her wherever she went. She pushed onward, clutching a plastic bag of groceries in each hand, marking off the streets block by block until her building was in front of her. Even then she remained terrified until she was safely locked in.

She ate Ramens and ice cream until she was stuffed, washing it down with her last half-bottle of wine. The wine was supposed to last a week but she'd probably get more tomorrow. She was beginning to feel better. She drew her curtains. She had a fear of people in other apartments or on the street looking in at her at night. Then she took a shoebox from under her bed and took out the seven envelopes inside. One at a time, she opened them.

 _Dear Angel,_

_I hope everything is going all right for you. If you ever need anything, please call my contact number below. I think of you often._

_Sincerely,_

_James Callahan_

They were all nearly the same, yet each was unique. The first one, almost four years old, had what looked like a coffee stain on the upper left corner. She pictured Jamie writing it in his own apartment with a cup of coffee at his elbow, thinking about her, wanting to know she was all right. The fourth had come in an envelope that was taupe, not white like all the others. The sixth, sent a year ago, ended not with _Sincerely_ but _Always your friend._ She had stared at this closing a thousand times, willing Jamie to come to life inside the words. Then five months ago the most recent letter had come - January 4, like clockwork - and her eyes had flown to the closing. _Sincerely._ Her heart had plummeted.

The first letter had been the best because she hadn't expected it. She'd moved back to Boston in November and she'd found it in her mailbox on a winter day when her fingers hurt from the cold and the hem of her skirt had dragged in the snow and slapped her bare calves raw and red. It had been a shock and a joy. How did Jamie know her address? He'd gone looking for it. That meant he really did think of her often. She read it over and over, carried it around with her, slipped it out of her pocket ten times a day while she was supposed to be typing up the pastor's crappy sermons and stuffing his envelopes and putting together the church newsletter. She had thought about calling Jamie some night. But what would she say? It would be awkward and stumbly and she'd wreck any memory he had of her. Better to wait until things were going well for her.

The second letter had fanned her hopes. He'd included the same phone number at the bottom, but by then things were going worse for her, not better - she was putting on weight, her life had fallen into a pattern of reclusiveness and solitary binges: ramen, ice cream, wine, TV. It was a relief that the churchy people had stopped trying to befriend her, but that said something about her that wasn't too flattering. So she didn't call, and six months later another letter came and she figured out his pattern. The first week of January, the first week of July. But she couldn't wait - all year round, she opened her mailbox with a kind of desperate hope that she derided as pitiful. Here she was, a month before July, and already she was nearly sick with excitement. The letter would come and she'd read it again and again, squeezing the juice from it, squeezing and resqueezing until less and less juice came out. But she couldn't lay off. 

Or maybe no letter would come this July. She tried to steel herself for that. It was not likely that he would keep bothering to write to her for the next fifty years. This might be the year that July would pass like the creep of an insect up a blade of grass, and she would know she'd waited too long and wrecked everything. But what else could she do? He wasn't like her; he had a good life, the kind with parties and friends and probably a wife and children. Anyways his letters were just polite, nothing special. They were the kind of notes a distant uncle would send to an orphaned niece. For all she knew, it was a secretary who scrawled the letters. It was idiotic to make such a big deal over them. She hated that she knew his phone number by heart. 

She imagined calling him to tell him about the man in the store. "It's Angel," she'd say, "um, you know - Angel Morjo?" There'd be a silence. And then, "Sorry: Who is this, again?" Even after he knew her, he'd be bemused. And practical. "If someone's bothering you, just go to the police." Secretly he'd probably be thinking what she was thinking. _But are you sure you heard him right? Are you still taking the medicine they gave you?_

She put away the letters carefully, even though the wine had sunk into her brain. She slumped into a stupor and fell asleep with the TV on, like she usually did. She dreamed in Karthic that night, of Jaro motioning toward her as she stepped toward the edge of a mountain path. Then a gun went off and she jumped and it was all too late, and in the next confused scene she was trapped under a man's weight unable to breathe, a cracked concrete ceiling above her and cold concrete under her naked back. 

She awoke at sunrise, the TV showing a news show that hurt her head. Her face was creased against the corduroy stripes of the ragged sofa. Its foamy innards were pushing out along the seams. She got up and ate the rest of the ice cream even though her stomach hurt. No one followed her onto the T. The man from the store was not in sight. Even though she jumped out of her skin at every man who came up behind her, she arrived at work just like every other day, and typed and filed and stared out the window, and took the T home. She congratulated herself on having not called Jamie. That would have been ridiculous and she would have embarrassed herself. 

That night she paced in front the TV. She wanted to go out. Specifically, she wanted another bottle of wine. Her mind kept circling the idea of it, like a wary animal circling a hank of meat poised over the jaws of a bear-trap. The man was out there; she should stay in. But she kept circling the idea of the liquor store, circling it and circling it because she couldn't get it off her mind, and every pass brought her closer to going out there. She argued with herself. The man had not actually existed, and if he had existed, she had misunderstood him, and if she had not misunderstood him, it didn't matter because he was just messing with her. That's what people did. Sometimes a guy would make dog-bark noises at her or yell out, "Hey, bitch!" or something similar. A boy on the T with a slack face, mentally retarded probably, had mumbled something to her once, and when she said "Sorry, what?", leaning in politely to hear him, he had smiled lazily and pointed: "Big tits." And she hadn't done anything but freeze up and feel sick, and keep feeling sick all evening and all night and every time she thought of it. Tonight was like that: she felt sick; she needed something for her nerves. Needed it. Her usual liquor store was on Harvard Street just past the grocery store where the man had cornered her. She wouldn't walk there again, not for a while, anyway. Liquor Express, then. It was in the opposite direction, on a side street off Calhoun.

She made it. She picked a cheap red wine in a double-size bottle, even though it would hurt her hip on the walk back. It was the label her father used to drink before he changed to vodka. Hoisting the bag, she turned toward home.

She had gone just a block when the man fell in step beside her.

"Kravyet tan, mevarrh."

She walked faster. But it was useless, laughable even. His long legs carried him along smoothly while she limped and struggled. The wine bottle slowed her down. He was keeping his body between her and the street, and her arms were full. He began to speak to her in English. "It's been a long time, precious. You remember me. We had good times together, didn't we?" She couldn't answer. He laughed. "You _kartakyi_ dogs killed Azor Mirtallev. Now it's your turn. We're going to hurt you good, you dog-of-the-mountains." 

Ahead was the corner of a small side street, poorly lit. Her terror doubled because now she knew his plan - he'd force her down that little street where no one would see, where he could drag her to the ground with a hand over her mouth and do anything to her. A car passed them. She could call out. But no one would hear, and if they did they wouldn't stop, not for a woman on the sidewalk with a big man. If she called out he'd know she was thinking of escape. Better not to tip her hand. Stay meek and wait for an opportunity. Maybe he didn't mean any harm, she thought, and this thought became a loud hum in her mind that almost drowned out the distant shriek of alarm. _No, no. Don't be silly. Don't overreact, it's just some guy joking around. You're fine._ Across the street, past the next block of student apartments, there was a gas station. She could make a break for it if she got close enough. Run inside. Run to the clerk at the counter. Beg for help. 

The corner that led to the side street was only steps away. She didn't know if she'd run. She didn't know if she'd have the courage. Then her body took over, instinct overruling the tangled terror in her brain. Her legs stopped sharply and then she was doubling back, dodging him as he grabbed for her. She heaved her paper bag at him and dashed out into the street, hearing the heavy crash of glass behind her. A car was coming at her. It slammed on its brakes and tires squealed. The driver was lowering his window to shout at her, but she was already limping up on the other curb, running now, past the silent apartment complex. She could see the jaundiced lights of the gas station up ahead. She heard footsteps behind her, running, closing easily and she kept running in her limping, desperate gait. But she knew it was over. 

He drew even with her and again placed himself between her and the street. Her lungs burned. She could not run any farther, and there was no use anymore. She slowed to a staggering walk.

"You dropped your bottle," he said. "You didn't want to share it with me? Me and my friends, we make a party with you. Just like the old days." She was braced for him to grab her but he merely ambled alongside her, smiling. Perhaps he didn't know about the gas station. Perhaps there was still hope he would let her live long enough to make a run for it.

"All right," she said numbly. It had been a long time since Arbezi words had passed her lips. She didn't look at him, or ahead to the gas station. He must not guess she still had fight in her. She kept her eyes on the ground.

"You speak Arbezi still," he laughed. "It's good you haven't forgotten. The party will be at your home. You know where. Two-two-seven-six Marconi Road, the fifth floor, number 508. We'll meet you there. Maybe tonight. My friends and me. We will have fun with you. You'll like it, _kartakyi_."

She couldn't answer. Her mouth was dry and she was terrified, but she counted off another three steps and found herself even with the front drive of the gas station. Its waxy yellow light touched her. She burst into a ragged run, her feet striking unevenly against the fissured pavement. He lunged for her. There was no way she'd make it, but she did - got her hands on the glass door and yanked it open, squeezed through, heart slamming. She rushed to the counter, where a middle-aged woman in a Shell Oil cap stared at her doubtfully.

"Someone's following me," she gasped.

The woman frowned. "You all right?"

The glass door remained closed. Outside she could see him still. He was standing under the lit sign that advertised gas prices and chili dogs. He was not pursuing, just waiting. She was a mouse gone down a hole, and the hole had only one exit. Maybe not, she thought. Maybe there was a back door to this place and she could sneak away while he waited in the front. She could dash through the alleys along the backs of this strip of buildings until she lost him. Then she could find her way home.

But he knew her address, her apartment number. He had friends. They would be waiting for her.

"That's him, that guy there? You wanna call the police?" The woman pushed her phone forward on the counter. "Call the police; they'll run him off. What is he - ex-boyfriend?"

The police would help. They would scare him off and maybe take her to a police station to make a report. Or they might drive her home. But then they'd leave. And then what?

If she had anywhere to run to, any family at all; any college friend she'd kept in touch with. Even the stupid minister: if she had his number she'd call him. He wouldn't turn her away; his Jesus thing wouldn't let him. He'd probably make her pray with him, but at least she'd be safe for the night. Even that wouldn't help. After a day or two she'd have to go home. To 2276 Marconi Road, Apt. 505. Where the man and his friends would come for her.

A thought was already speaking in her. It was growing larger inside her, a desire, a great hope she couldn't quell. It was the only way. Through the glass front of the store she could see the man, his arms crossed, staring in at her fixedly. His feet were spread and planted, as if he'd wait for her forever.

Angel touched the phone, half expecting it to sink sharp little teeth into her finger. She looked at the woman. "Can I call long distance?"

//........................................

They put the empty lot to hard wear every evening, shouting and hurling themselves over the dirt, going hard for the ball, leaping and cutting past each other, crashing and falling to earth and always bounding up unharmed. She'd been strong like that once, confident of her strength and afraid of nothing. The sight of them sparked the same torment she suffered every afternoon when she looked up from her computer and strained her eyes out the window of her third-floor office toward the distant glimpse of distant brown river framed by office buildings in the foreground. That was when the college crews came out for afternoon practice. She couldn't make out the colors of their blades from so far away, but she stared and imagined, thinking of the oarsmen moving those boats: the boys barechested by early May, the girls in tank tops, the catch, the drive, the coaches gripping their megaphones and watching through narrowed eyes, one foot propped up on the transom. If any of the rowers happened to glance out over the gunwhales and raise their eyes to the rooftops of Davis Square, they might see the church where she worked and the tiny window of her office. They wouldn't see her, though. They'd have no idea that on the other side of the glass was a ruined woman who had once been young. Who had once been one of them.


	8. journal 2.  there were questions later

_July 12_

I saw her after that night on the train, but only in hallucination. Her outline was in front of me the next morning while I ran deeper into the forest, away from the gunshots and the screams. As I hauled myself up boulders and struggled through the underbrush, up into the mountains my parents had fled thirty years before, step by step, hand over hand, deaf from the explosions, bleeding from the thorns - she pursued me there. I saw her at night while I lay huddled in a frightened lump, waiting for the enemy. In the months that followed, while I crouched along mountain passes with a gun, ready to kill, she was with me. In the dark at Marchev, in that concrete room that stank of rot and open sores, she said deranged things in a singsong voice while the other women cried or screamed in their sleep. I saw her floating in front of me, making faces, jeering, saying there was no hope and no end except the pit. I knew she was a phantasm but I still reached out . 

Only once did Jamie ask me about her. It was a couple weeks after the UN peacekeepers came into Marchev, and he was supporting my weight while I hobbled over the mud. My feet were swollen; I was learning to walk again. We were outside the infirmary tent and there was no one nearby except one of the forensic people, a Swede, I think, drawing on a cigarette. Jamie dropped his voice so she wouldn't hear. "Angel," he said. "I have to ask you something. That other girl - Carana Silvestri. Do you know what happened to her?" 

I pretended not to hear him, of course. He didn't push. I was barely human, a revenant back from the grave, and he was the way he always was: quiet and strong and patient. That's part of why I could never tell him about her. From the beginning, he was always so damn sure that I was innocent. 

Later, when I was back in America, men from the government came. A nurse led me into the visitors' room at the rehab center. I hugged my arms from the cold. I was always cold in those days, having no padding left, nothing but oozing skin stretched across a frame of bones. The two government men were clean and stylish in their gray suits and shiny shoes and I was embarrassed by the difference between us. One of them sat in the corner, nearly out of my line of vision. He took notes. The other one asked the questions. Words left my mouth. In spite of the eternal cold I had a furnace in my brain those first weeks, and all I wanted was to be left alone to burn. 

I should have told the truth from the beginning. I should have told it later, at least, when the medicines kicked in and the flames died down a little. I've had four long, huddling years since then, and I could have spoken up any time. But I never did, and I know what that makes me. 


	9. callahan at the grill.  his memories.  her ethics.  phone call.

Callahan leaned over the grill and tipped up the burgers to check their undersides. Theresa liked hers practically charred. The evening wavered with sullen heat, but the low sun and a huffing breeze made the deck enjoyable at this hour. Through the sliding screen door he heard ice clinking in the kitchen where Ter was mixing him a drink. 

Being out on the deck made him feel a little like God. It stood on high stilts, since the backyard sloped down sharply, providing a vantage point that let him look down upon the glory of his creation. Three years ago he had put up a new wooden fence around the property, and it was holding up well: the boards still straight and fine. Two summers ago he had laid a mortared flagstone path that crossed the grass to a shady patio under a spreading oak. Ter had bought a wrought-iron table to set there, and she liked to sit out on Sunday mornings or breezy evenings with a cup of coffee and one of her journals: the Economist or Mother Jones or Elle Decor, all of which she read cover to cover with equal gravity, waving off his amusement. "I like to know what the world is thinking," she would say. Last summer he had spent every weekend repairing the deck itself, prying out sagging beams and rebuiding the entire railing. Theresa had raised her fine eyebrows and suggested they hire someone for the job. He had stood firm, as a matter of West Virginia pride. "Grandpappy's ghost would kill me. I can hear him now: a man who can't fix up his own home ain't much a man." 

Theresa came out through the French doors and handed him a gin and tonic. She had changed from her work clothes into a t-shirt and cut-offs and had her hair pulled back in a rough ponytail. Put a beer in her hand instead of cabernet, and she could have been a West Virginia girl, herself. Well, okay. Maybe not. Angel could have been a country girl in different clothes and the hometown accent, but Theresa, never. 

He was thinking about Angel too much tonight. He'd have to watch that.

"I left work early and dropped in on Dad," she said darkly. "His cardiologist called me this morning. Apparently he missed his last two appointments." 

"Did you two fight about it?" He eyed her. "Your nose isn't busted open, so I'm guessing not." 

"Don't laugh. It isn't funny." 

Theresa's father was a career military man. He woke every morning and put on a shirt and tie and read the paper front to back. Since the death of Theresa's mother he had stripped his home of personal touches - family photographs, the art prints his wife had favored - so now the bared walls and spartan furniture gave his duplex the look of a barracks. Theresa's mother had died slowly from ovarian cancer and the Old Man had tended her faithfully and stood at the funeral with a face like granite; it was Callahan's estimation that he took her death as a personal defeat. He recognized that the same enemy would soon be coming for him, too, and that he had no chance against it. All that was left was to make a defiant last stand and go out with his boots on. No doctor could give him orders; certainly no daughter could. In his bathroom, the pill bottles stood in a severe row like men on the parade ground, but Callahan suspected that he never opened them. Callahan thought Ter should lay off. The Old Man should be allowed to knot his tie and stand his post the way he wanted, and be spared the indignity of cajolings and scoldings. His own father would never have stood for that either. 

He had learned better than to say this aloud. She scowled at him anyway. "Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're philosophical. And you can be that way, because you don't love him and he's not your father." 

"True. It's you I love." 

The irony was that Theresa was someday going to turn out just like her father. She had the same streak of rigid righteousness. Even her makeup made him smile - she lined up her paints and polishes in the same imposed parade-ground order that the Old Man did with his pill bottles. He imagined she'd be one of those old ladies who got her hair done every Saturday at the same time in the same chair, and was feared and called a tigress, but also was beloved and indulged. She was the kind who'd refuse to give up her drivers' licence when her eyes went bad. She'd soften only for him when he put his hand on hers. He'd be the only one who could manage her.

To change the subject, he said, "We could go out to dinner next week. I could make reservations in town."

"I'd like that. Maybe Tuesday." 

"Ah, well, not Tuesday. There's a meeting." 

"Oh, okay. You chose, then." Theresa hadn't had anything to say about his recent meetings and late homecomings. Yesterday he had gone to Washington to brief a woman from Operations about Simontov's quirks and general character. Before that, he'd met two unidentified men at the Randolph building and answered questions about the Karth POW's he'd met at the liberation of Marchev. He had the impression Theresa was adopting a policy of willful blindness towards his resurgent involvement with the company. That was good. Willful blindness probably saved many marriages. 

She would be fine with him being reinstated. She would be happy for him. He didn't dwell on the possibility that she wouldn't, since there was no point worrying about something that hadn't happened yet. He was different from Ter in that way. She liked to know the last move before she made the first, had contingency plans in place before they were needed, and deduced the end of every novel by the fourth page. Whereas he lived by his mother's dictum, "Why borrow trouble?" He was an optimist; that was the heart of it. Theresa laid plans to guard against every possible disaster. He, on the other hand, had an innate faith in his ability to charm and finesse his way through every obstacle that might rear across his path. 

"How about Wednesday?" he said. "My class ends at five. I'll be home at six." 

"All right." She looped her arms around his neck and put a cool kiss on his cheek. 

"How's your work been?" he asked. "Any expeditions coming up?" The burgers hissed and he took up the spatula and flipped them over.

"Don't remind me. There's Guatemala in three weeks, but it's turning into a nightmare. The scrub nurse I booked just backed out at the last minute; death in the family, she says. So the options are, one, I scramble for a last-minute replacement, or two, I send an RN who isn't a scrub nurse and won't know what she's doing, or three, we delay the trip a week and risk getting into the harvesting season."

He had only the faintest idea what a scrub nurse was. "What's wrong with the harvesting season?"

"Everyone might be too busy picking to come to the eye clinic, and the whole trip will be a waste of resources. Can't tell yet. Our Mayan coordinator on the ground is trying to figure it out." She stared out the window, but she wasn't seeing; she was thinking. She had always been great on detail work. When she had chosen Admin he had been baffled, but as he got an understanding, through her eyes, of all that went into running an embassy, he began to appreciate her talents. Fuck knows, he wouldn't last a day doing what she did. 

"You'll work it out. No one could do the job better than you. You were made for it."

"Maybe." 

Their eyes met, and he knew what they were both remembering.

Theresa had handed in her resignation on a Tuesday morning. That's when his phone rang - two minutes later, Quentin on the line hissing out a summons. The thundercloud had burst over his head. 

That night he came home and found Theresa standing at the picture window, pale and unyielding as a marble statue. She showed no emotion when she told him what she'd done. All he could do was stare at her. Finally he mumbled that it was too late to change anything now. He didn't trust himself to say more. The next morning he got up and got ready and left the house early while she lay in bed. He got through the day somehow. After six p.m. he got in his car and drove to the VA, to the women's rehab wing, where he sat with Angel. She seemed to know at a glance that something had changed for him. He could feel her despair and he knew she could feel his, and he held her hand and neither of them said anything. When visiting hours ended, he had nowhere to go but home. Theresa was still in her sleeping clothes, pacing their apartment with her arms crossed like Napoleon. He was polite, and she nodded distantly and didn't look at him. So it went for the whole week. He didn't let on about the nightmare she'd hurled him into. He kept up his game face, because that's what a good husband did; she had enough to deal with. She stayed withdrawn. In the mornings she remained in bed until he was gone, and in the evenings she paced distractedly while he came home late after seeing Angel, and shut himself up in the spare room. At night they lay beside each other and said nothing. 

But the following Monday, he came home to find her changed. She wore a trim suit and her makeup was back on. "I heard from Quentin this morning," she said. 

Quentin had called and, with no hint of rancor, had told her about a job he thought she'd be perfect for. "The director of Vision International is a friend of mine. Can you meet him today? No expectations. Just listen to what he has to say." Theresa had been suspicious, but had met the man director for lunch. He had offered her Director of Operations before the dessert menu appeared. She hadn't given him an answer. 

"The company is pulling strings, don't you see?" she fumed. "They're setting me up in this job, to keep me indebted. The last thing they want is an ex-employee roving around, unemployed and embittered and with nothing left to lose. They want to put me somewhere they can keep an eye on me. I'll have a great salary and great benefits and it's a job I'll like. And all I have to do to keep it is be a docile, well-behaved kitty and not bite the hand that feeds." 

For one instant, he had remained speechless, just as he'd been speechless around her since she set this train crash into motion. Then he exploded. 

She didn't have a fucking clue. 

She had no idea what she'd done to him. 

So he spelled it out. After she threw down her resignation, Quentin had summoned him to answer for her actions. Florid and breathing fire, he'd jabbed his thick finger down on her letter. "Says she's quitting because of US involvement in war crimes in Arbeztan," he spat. He read from the page, " 'I will no longer be party to mass murder and moral bankruptcy.' That's got to be my favorite line. Now I'd like you to explain where your wife gets her information about American diplomatic efforts in Arbeztan. No, don't bother. Your clearance is revoked. You're on administrative leave." 

He did not return to his office. 'Administrative leave' meant that he was no longer allowed on company property. He was escorted from C23 and taken under guard to a half-furnished office in a building that was largely deserted. They patted him down, showed him a chair, and told him the rules of his new life: while he remained under investigation, he would report to this room by eight every morning and remain under watch until six. They took his ID. They took everything they could take. Every day he sat, and at intervals he was summoned and his minder would escort him into familiar buildings, down unfamiliar hallways, into rooms where he was questioned formally on camera by friends who now kept their faces blank as if they didn't recognize him. He had been told to expect something they called a targeted debriefing. He could only guess at what would happen there, what they would do to him when the door closed him in. 

"What I told you about Marchev was said in confidence!" - and she flinched because he was shouting, something he'd never done before. He liked that she was scared of him; he wanted her scared. He'd like to make her cry. "That was supposed to stay between you and me. Now they're calling it an NTK violation. You resigning, that's a security breach. Get it? You told yourself you were taking the high road, but you left me to be strung up for it. They're preparing a board of inquiry. You didn't think of that. You're so damn self-righteous, aren't you - but you never gave a thought to anyone besides yourself. And now that you've wrecked my career, and thrown away yours, I come home and find you whining because the new job you've been offered isn't good enough!" 

Distantly he knew he was being unfair. She hadn't guessed, any more than he had, that what he'd told her was going to be termed a violation. He had clutched at her in bed that night because he couldn't help himself. The words had fallen out of him: about the stacked bodies in the pits at Marchev, the rotting arms sticking up at strange angles, the stink he couldn't escape, Azor's involvement. And that he'd known - not the details, but the general shape of what was happening. From early on, he'd known. But it hadn't crossed his mind that he was telling secrets. She was his wife, after all. They both had top clearance. They both knew roughly what the other one did for a living. They never told details, names, dates, any information that be useful to a third party. All he had told her, in their own home and their own bed, was that the company had wanted him to look away from Azor's actions. In a million years he'd never have guessed anyone would blame him for that. 

Except it turned out that they did. 

Theresa recovered quickly. She smoothed her face back into its usual composure and said, as if they were discussing dinner plans: "You think I should take the job." 

He had never been closer to striking her. "Yeah, I think you should! I think it would be pretty fucking nice if one of us is still getting a paycheck tomorrow. Take the job that's being handed you on a silver platter. You take yours, and I'll keep trying to hang on to mine!" 

She didn't even slam the door behind her. _Good fucking riddance,_ he'd thought. _Don't come back._ An hour later, it started pouring. He hoped she had no umbrella. He hoped she had nowhere to seek cover. He imagined her wet and sorry, coming tearstained to the door with an apology that he would not accept. 

She didn't come home that night. He lay awake in bed until four. He went bleary-eyed to the targeted debriefing, where two company interrogators took turns bashing him back and forth. The next day, he faced the board of inquiry. He took a beating in front of a panel of men and women who didn't bother to introduce themselves. The questions came like blows, one after another, leaving him reeling. He staggered home late, to a silent and comfortless house where he wandered among the rooms while his thoughts turned in tight circles. The next day it continued - and the next and the next and the next. He was shell-shocked. He ate cold cereal for dinner, then threw it up. He thought of going to Angel but he didn't have the strength. He did not understand what was happening. How could a man's life go to pieces in an instant? 

Finally she called. "I'm staying in a hotel. I need some time to think." It was the most banal of excuses. He understood that he was losing her, and suddenly he couldn't draw breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "Come home." 

But there was only a measured silence. And then: "I don't know, Jamie. I have to do the right thing." 

"What's the right thing?" He was afraid to ask, but uncertainty was worse. 

"I don't know yet. I'm still weighing all the options." 

"Please. Ter. Just come home." 

She stayed away. At work, he was pulled relentlessly forward into the teeth of a huge machine. He wasn't defiant anymore, just broken. On his fifth day in front of the inquiry panel, he put his face in his hands and broke down. _"What do you want from me? I said I was sorry!"_

Maybe that was what they were waiting for. The last meeting was in Quentin's office. A contract was once again being laid in front of him. Quentin had his arms folded. "You'll be moved to Media Analysis," he said. A company lawyer stood beside him. "You'll keep low-level clearance. You'll be allowed to keep your pension. You'll draw the salary of a level nine." 

"And if I decline?" But he already knew he couldn't. 

"Then you leave with nothing, and you'll stand before a tribunal within the week." 

Theresa had called it correctly. The company wanted to keep control of both of them. He would remain beholden to them for his paycheck and his retirement plan. As a company man, though now in name only, he would still be under company rules. They would be entitled to watch his friendships, his bank accounts and personal habits. He would have to endure twice-yearly CDD's and avoid gray-zone behavior. The threat of a tribunal would always remain if he stepped out of line. He would be useful as leverage against Theresa if she tried to make trouble. 

He signed the papers. 

That night, he drank three shots of bourbon and dragged himself up to the bedroom, where he fell stuporously into bed in his clothes. He awoke some time later. Theresa was sitting beside him, her hand on her shoulder. "It's done," she sighed. "I took the job with Vision." She gripped him harder, her fingers digging into his flesh. He reached out to her wordlessly and they both hung on. 

Four years on, here they were: grilling burgers on the back porch of their well-kept home. The change to M.A. had felt catastrophic, but now that escape seemed possible, he was able to see some good in it. It had put him and Ter together in Virginia after sixteen years of being mostly on opposite sides of the world. They had settled into a new phase of marriage. Sure, some of the thrill had gone out of sex - it used to be that they broke the springs on the bed in every hotel they met up at - but they were a team now, a couple of old marrieds like his parents had been. He pressed the burgers. They were perfect. As he tossed the buns on the grill to warm, Theresa handed him a paper plate. 

"Smells delicious, hon. I left the salad inside. "

His burger tasted as good as it looked, and he congratulated himself. Theresa, however, looked at hers and didn't pick it up. 

"What is it? Not done enough?" 

"I was just thinking," she said, "that I've never killed a cow."

He laughed. "What's that supposed to mean? Why - have you killed anything else?" 

She looked at him. Tipped her head back and arched her fine eyebrows. 

She had to be kidding. 

"Really?" He dropped his voice. 

He couldn't fathom it. She was Admin cone - desk work: arranging salaries, doing background checks on local hires, importing generators and making sure the embassy water bill got paid on time. The day he learned that the company had been recruiting her along with him - the day he signed - his first thought had been, _But what could they want with her?_ It had injured his pride, because if the company took in people like her, mere paper-pushers, was it really so special that they'd wanted him? Finally he realized she would be useful for creative records. Someone had to arrange identities and passports and false working papers, and the trails of documents that provided cover and obscured an operative's real work.

But now this. 

He chewed for a while. She was still holding the plate, looking at it, looking at him. Finally she said, tight and bitter, "You never suspected. I did for the company exactly what I do for Vision International. I equipped expeditions." 

He put the burger down. Nervously he said, "You shouldn't be talking about that. NTK." Since running afoul of the need-to-know principle, he had become a stickler for it. 

She smiled coldly. "It's been four years. Nothing I knew back then means anything now. I arranged imports and exports. Special deliveries. Some legal, some not. There's one of us at every embassy. That's how it works: we all know each other and we get items across borders. Sometimes it's not items; sometimes it's people. We've got a whole network that transfers special goods across the world. We get the orders and we fill them: anything they tell us to for whatever job they're running, for whoever they want dead or kidnapped - and we never leave a trace." She shrugged. "So I don't know how many people I've killed, really. No fucking clue."

"Well--" He was trying to work his mind around this. "You didn't, really-- I mean, you're not really responsible for anything. You just helped with the set-up."

"Yes; that's what I used to tell myself. But did that make me better than the people who were hands-on? Maybe it made me worse, because I was a crucial part of it but I never had to take the risks or mop up the blood afterward. Maybe quitting makes me worse, too. The operations are still running; I didn't stop them. I still live here in comfort and safety, in a nice house on a nice street in a nice country built on foreign murders. So what's right and what's wrong, in the end?" 

She picked the bun off the burger and tore it into neat pieces and threw them, one by one, over the deck rail into the hostas. "You know where burgers come from? At the slaughterhouse they line up the cows on a chute. They make them walk, one by one, to the edge of a platform. There's a guy waiting with a bolt gun. The cow is terrified, and she looks up at him with her big cow eyes. Bang, he shoots: into the brain. The carcass falls into the pit that waits below. Then the next cow is prodded forward. Cow after cow. All day long. The carcasses get swept along a conveyor belt to where the butchers wait. There's people who spend their whole careers murdering cows for a living." Her face was masklike. He didn't recognize her. "The slaughterhouses," she said, "make the cow-killers sit down with a counselor every six months. Just like a CDD. Sounds familiar, doesn't it." 

"People have dirty jobs, Ter." At Marchev he had seen pits full of carcasses, but he didn't want to think about that. "That's life. That's the real world."

"Yes. Some people have dirty jobs, and some people don't. But the ones who don't - the ones like me, who stay well out of it - we still eat the meat, don't you see? I couldn't kill the cow, but I'll sink my teeth into this burger and close my eyes to how it got here. And that's not morality; it's just-- squeamishness. It's still going on. Company work, all over the world. There's death camps somewhere else, no different from Marchev, and America probably has a hand in them. Somewhere, there's an expedition being mounted; a high-level bureaucrat who's maybe gonna die tonight, a targeted strike on a family in some damn desert. And there's me in this nice safe house, feeling all clean and innocent. Everything runs on war and murder. But look!" She held her hands up with a bright smile. "No blood on me!"

"That's enough. You can't talk like this about your old job. I don't want to hear it." 

She laughed, short and brutal. "For fuck's sake - it's been four years. I don't have any damn secrets anymore. You do, though. That's the world you're walking back into." 

She turned from him, but not before he saw the tears starting in her eyes. "Theresa." 

"I don't know what's right." 

Jesus. Did he deserve this? He'd grilled the damn burgers like she wanted. He was expecting dinner, not a dissection of US policy. Couldn't she see how carefully he was balancing everything, trying to make things good for the two of them, trying to position himself better with the company and still make her happy and make their house payments and listen to her problems at work? He didn't want to hear what she'd done or not done - or, to tell the truth, how she felt about it. He just wanted to eat a burger and do a damn job. He was good at it and he liked it. It was the same line of work she herself had been happy to engage in for a long time, until suddenly she wasn't.

"Look around," he said. "We live in a free country, with the rule of law and no invasion force landing in the night. Why does your niece walk to school safe each day, when kids all over the world are getting snatched up and forced into militias or bartered as slaves? We both know why. It's because some Americans have always been willing to do what's necessary to keep us all safe."

"Yes; I get it. I know that. And that's the big difference between us. You're willing to kill the cow, and I'm not. You'll work inside the slaughterhouse, and I walked out. But I'll eat the burgers once they're well done with no pink showing. And that makes you more honorable than I am. That's why, if you're going back to Ambassadorial, even to Arbeztan - if that's what all these meetings are about - then I've got no right to stand in your way." She looked up at the darkening sky for a moment. "I have to be fair to you. Whatever I think of US policy, I'm a beneficiary of it. So I can't blame you any more than I blame myself."

He could hardly follow her around the curves. But she had said she'd support his bid to get back in. He shouldn't have doubted her. The tears lingered in her eyes and didn't fall, and he put his arms around her. "You can't say that what you do is less honorable. What you do is amazing. You fight blindness all over the world. You're doing what you're good at, and it's important. Hell, it's way more important than the crap I've been doing the last four years. But, you know me." He hugged her hard. "I can't help it. I'm still a believer. I think the company is good for everyone, in spite of its dark side."

She softened in his arms. She didn't want to fight any more than he did. He understood this about people: they staked out their territories, planted their flags on the hills that mattered to them, but they pretty much all just wanted a good life. Theresa was rigid in her ways, and hard on herself - but she wanted peace at home, and comfort. They loved each other. She'd stand by him in Ambassadorial, and he'd adore her. Everything would stay just fine. 

She looked up at him. "I made a will four years ago; did you know that? That's what I did right after I tendered my resignation." She laughed a little. "I had this idea that they wouldn't let me go. But then they did - so I guess I was just being melodramatic. The company doesn't kill its own. It's still in my sock drawer, in case you ever need it."

"Don't be planning to die on me," he said. "I couldn't get by without you." 

He hugged her, hard. The differences between them were small and surmountable, and the things that bound them together were too strong to be destroyed. They understood each other's burdens like no one else could. They knew the same unsavory truths about the world, and they'd stood together, side by side or back to back, for twenty years.

His phone buzzed at his waist. She smiled, though there were tears in her eyes, and gave him an understanding look as he disentangled himself and stepped out on the back porch. A breathy, frightened voice came over the line. "It's Angel," he heard. "Angel Morjo, in Boston. I'm in some trouble and-- I need your help."


	10. angel:  black sedan to the diner.  reunion with callahan

From the back seat of a black sedan, Angel stared blankly out the window. She was in a stranger's car. She was exhausted. Her eyes drooped, and then she jerked awake again and felt a wave of vertigo and nausea. She clutched at the handle of the door. This was real. This was happening. She drew her fingernails down her arm to make sure. Her skin registered cold rather than pain, as if the circuits of her brain were misfiring. Still, the cold scissoring sensation and the furrows in her skin was evidence that she was not hallucinating. She was not in a prison camp or a psych ward. She was not in the freezing mountain heights with her mind inventing shapes in the darkness as she listened for the crunch of boots on snow. 

"Stay where you are," Jamie had said. It had been so easy. She stuttered out her name and he knew her right away. She told him about the man waiting out in the dark. It was like he'd been standing ready all these years, waiting for her call just like his letters promised. He didn't ask any questions. "I have a friend in Boston. Don't worry. I'll send him to pick you up." So easy! She should have called him a long time ago. But what would she have said? _I'm not in trouble, I just need someone. I've dug myself a trap I can't escape, so come to Boston and save me. Just like before. Never stop saving me._

She was safe. Better that that: her dull, common life had been kicked upside-down like an empty can, and she was on a highway heading south out of town. She was in a strange car, going strange places. When morning came, the church would still be standing on the corner in Davis Square, and for once, she wouldn't be walking into it. Which could be a disaster, actually. But just for tonight she wouldn't look back. 

The line of lights surged up the highway, endless and hypnotic, each identical point of brightness growing from a distant star to a plate-sized orb wheeling overhead. Another thought struck her suddenly: she might be dead. On the street, she had been sure the Arbezi man meant to stick a blade into her throat or abdomen and drag it through her flesh to gut her like a lamb. She had been so sure that it was strange she was escaped. So, maybe he had killed her and she was refusing to remember. Suppose the shock of the knife-strike had blotted out the pain while she sank down like a sodden rag on the pavement. The last flickers of her dying mind had produced an Owl Creek fantasy: the store, the phone, Jamie's voice, the black sedan that promised rescue. But the sedan was Charon's barge, or maybe she was already in Tartarus living a kind of Sisyphean treadmill. The highway lights were a clever illusion that swelled and brightened to simulate forward motion, while in reality the car was standing still and always would be. It was the kind of joke the gods were famous for. _You wasted the life we gave you,_ Artemis would sneer. _We pulled you out of Marchev and you chose to huddle in your apartment and trudge back and forth, Allston to Davis Square and back, to the liquor store and back, in a life as small as you could make it. So now, enjoy the eternity you earned._

Again she ran her nails down her arm. She was not dead and not crazy. She was maybe a tiny bit unhinged, but that was from lack of sleep and the fright she'd had and the extreme strangeness of her current situation. Her eyes felt too big for their sockets. In the space of a few hours, her life had rocketed off the rails. It was only natural that her mind would grasp at stories to make sense of things, like the ancient Greeks in their ships on the Mediterranean, veering between shadowed cliffs and whirlpools in the empty night. 

She studied the back of the driver's head. H had given his name as Gerald Prince. He was not handsome, but he had swept into the gas station like a cut-rate superhero and escorted her into the back seat of the black sedan. Had closed her in carefully, then stood outside for a few minutes, leaning against the hood and talking on his cell phone. She hoped he had a gun under his jacket. She hunched down to make a smaller target, and stared out at the hulking gas pumps and the corner of the apartment building at the end of the lot. The Arbezi man was still out there somewhere, and Gerald Prince should be paying attention in case he leaped out and began shooting, but instead he was leaning into his phone, chatting casually like a man with no worries. Finally he climbed in and told her everything was settled. They would stop at her apartment so she could pack what she needed. Then he would drive her to Virginia. Jamie was waiting for her there. 

It sounded crazy. An all-night drive to Virginia, to see a spectre from her past who sent her a two-line letter every six months. Still, she couldn't argue with a man who had come out of nowhere and saved her life. 

At her apartment, he had taken her key and stepped inside first while she waited in the hall. She watched him glance around and walk through the one room, and the kitchenette and stick his head in the bathroom and open the closet. "Safe," he said. "No one's here." She wished he would kneel and check under the bed but was embarrassed to ask. Also she didn't want him seeing what was under there: underwear and old socks, probably, and the box with her letters from Jamie. He sat down on her one wobbly chair across from the TV which sat on a crate. She stuffed her things into a laundry bag. She didn't own a suitcase. 

What she really wished for was the bottle of wine that lay smashed on the street. She began to have a thirsty yearning as she imagined the heft and smoothness of the bottle, the cool glass rim against her lips and the warm detachment that would follow. She thought of the heavy splash the wine had made against the pavement. She could picture a dark red puddle on the street with chunks of winking glass staring out of it. She had blown eleven dollars on the wine and the Marlboro Lights, which left her only twenty-six in cash to take to Virginia. She had no idea how she would ever get back. 

Now that she was no longer in fear for her life, she was beginning to feel mortified by her apartment. Gerald Prince was the first guest she had ever had. Through his eyes she noticed the trash she hadn't taken out in a few weeks, and the brown coffee stains and crumbs all over the counter and floor, a clutter of clothes and books, an empty toilet paper tube, the sad little TV blaring as they entered. She never noticed these details herself, but now she imagined him reporting to Jamie later: _She lives in a sty. Trash everywhere; you should have seen it._

They went out, finally, to his car. The laundry bag bumped against her thigh. It had hard protuberances because she had packed her two favorite books along with a plastic bag with a toothbrush and lip gloss and deodorant. Gerald Price heaved it into the trunk. He opened the rear door for her again, and she sat and looked at the back of his head and the words, "Gerald Price" rolled around and around inside her mind like a marble in an empty coffee can. He had neat, generic hair and a neat, generic suit, which made her think about men in commercials that sold soap or fax machines. Soon they were on the turnpike. The car picked up speed. 

He made a little conversation. He didn't ask the expected questions about why she needed to be picked up in Allston in the middle of the night, or how she knew Jamie. He asked how long she'd lived in Boston and whether she was a Sox fan. She gave short answers until he fell quiet. Then she just stared vacantly out the window, her thoughts skidding and bumping. "You can stretch out and sleep back there," he said once. She would have loved to, but her eyes refused to close. 

She saw skyscrapers and her heart lifted with excitement; she had never been to New York City. She saw water that must be the Atlantic, with dark buildings projecting into it. Later they were on the Jersey Turnpike, which she had heard of. It was funny that she she had never been out of Boston, practically, until the summer after graduation when she had spent her father's money on that flight to Amsterdam. Then came a couple months of cheap travel, then Prague, and then-- all the stuff that happened after. The Jersey Turnpike was wide and flat and looked like every other place; she was disappointed. Her eyelids finally drooped. Then a rifle was being held out to her and she put her hands out for it, but as she got her hands on the barrel she jerked awake. The road was as wide and barren as a desert. It had exits but the car kept whizzing by them. She had no idea what lay up ahead. 

Dawn came. This confused her because she hadn't slept, so her brain was stuck on yesterday. The sun rose just like any other day. In the well-lit world, she regretted calling Jamie. Maybe there hadn't been any danger. Maybe her treacherous brain had invented the whole episode, or overreacted to a random crazy man in the darkness. But there was no way out now. Jamie was waiting. 

Exit to Baltimore. Exit to Washington DC. She saw a sign for Alexandria, which sounded familiar and, when she remembered why, made her wince with shame. Gerald took them onto a smaller highway and then an exit, which was like falling through a trapdoor into an unsuspected world. The car turned down a few streets, past parking lots full of cars that belonged to other people living other lives. They passed unfamiliar shops that sold sandwiches and coffee. She was too tired to make sense of anything, or to care. That might be a good thing, she decided. She was too tired to worry about seeing Jamie, and what he would think of her and how disappointed he would be with what she had become. 

"Miss Morjo? Angel?" Gerry was standing at her door, which he had opened for her like a chauffeur. They were parked in a lot outside a strip of shops. She blinked. Her legs were stiff. He led her toward one of the shops, which had a glass door with frosted lettering giving the hours. As she entered, she realized it was a breakfast place - the old-fashioned kind, with plastic checked tablecloths and an elderly couple in a corner by the window, eating scrambled eggs. Only one other table was occupied. A man was sitting alone with a cup of coffee in front of him. He was looking her way. She hadn't realized that the years had hazed his face out of her memory. He had become, since they'd last seen each other, a photocopy of a photocopy, a memory based on a memory that kept getting fainter every time it was recalled. But now, in an instant, he sprang back into flesh. She didn't have any idea what to say 

She hadn't even had a chance to check a mirror or fix her hair. She would have liked to turn and run. But Gerry was still moving forward and she was drawn along in his wake. 

Jamie stood as she approached. "Angel." He said it in a throat-caught way. His Adam's apple bobbed. "It's good to see you again." 

"Hi." She barely managed to bring the syllable past her lips. 

He turned to Gerald, all business, "Thanks, man. I owe you." 

"Not a problem. Do you want me to stay close?"

"Why don't you see the sights. I'll call soon."

Gerald took off without a word. She was alone with James Callahan and could do nothing but stare at him in a kind of joyous stupor. She stumbled, "Thanks for this. For everything. I didn't know who else to call."

"It's all right. Have a seat. I'll get you some breakfast. You must be hungry." He shook his head and added, softly, "Damn." And then, "You look good." 

That brought her back to earth. She gave him a wry look. She meant it as an apology. She had thought of this moment a thousand times, but in her imagination she would be hard and lithe and beautiful when he saw her, with eyes that flashed fire, and their paths would be crossing accidentally while she was doing something exciting. Whitewater rafting, or skydiving. He would recognize her first, and be amazed and admiring before she even noticed him. 

"Thanks," she said. "You, too." 

"I've thought about you," he said. "I've hoped you were doing okay." 

"Well, you know. Going to work, coming home. Hanging out." That sounded stupid. She twitched her shoulder and added vaguely, "The usual."

"I guess you got my phone number off my letters."

It occurred to her that maybe he had hoped she would answer him. Maybe he had checked the mail just the way she had, every January and every July. She'd never considered that. "Sorry I didn't write back." She would never admit how often she'd clutched his letters, pored over them, built a world of fantasy around them. 

"Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you thought of me last night when you needed help." 

"Look, I'm sorry about all this. You must be busy, and you probably should be at work. Your friend, Gerald - I can't believe he drove me all night. And I forgot to thank him."

"Ah, well. He's an old friend. I'd do the same for him."

The waiter appeared beside them. Angel jumped; she hadn't seem him walk up. "Easy," said Callahan. The concern in his voice was everything she'd dreamed of. He had always looked after her - in a UN cot, at the VA, his presence had banished all her monsters. 

"Just coffee," she mumbled.

"You sure? I'm paying." 

"Coffee," she answered grimly. She'd drink it black, too. She had twenty-five pounds to lose, and not a moment too soon. 

When the waiter was gone, Jamie said, "You know you're safe here. That man couldn't have followed you." 

"I know. Of course." He had seen her flinch. He thought she was extra jumpy today, because of the man who'd threatened her. He didn't realize she was always like this.

The waiter brought their coffee. "So," Jamie said after he left. "You said someone's threatening you. Tell me what happened. Was it anyone you recognized?"

"He was from Marchev." She stared down fixedly. To speak of Marchev was to allude to being weak and sick and helpless, the way she'd been when Jamie found her. With her naked skin showing through torn rags, what they'd done to her must have been obvious to anyone who glanced her way.

"Did he say anything about how he found you or what he wanted?"

She'd never repeat the things he'd said to her. She shrugged. 

Jamie was silent a moment. Then he said, "Listen. Something's happened that might be related. There was an assassination in Arbeztan six days ago. Did you hear?"

She recoiled. Jaro, killed? And she hadn't been there. Should have been and wasn't. 

"A man named Azor Mirtallev was shot in the capital. He was the minister of the Interior, a big-time nationalist. Some people blame him for stoking the flames. Provoking the war." 

So it wasn't Jaro. But it could have been, if he was even still alive. "I've heard of him. I didn't know he got assassinated." She didn't know much about Mirtallev, just that it was a name Jaro used to rage against, spitting whenever he was mentioned. Jaro said he'd made the speeches that inspired the killing squads - the Arbezi men who came into Karth villages on the lower slopes, raped the women, cut the ears off Karth children, bound the men with ropes and set them on fire. _Minister of the Interior_ , Jamie called him. Such an important, respectful name.

Her coffee was bitter. She stirred sugar into it angrily, staring down into the cup. Jamie had on a nice suit, not the UN uniform he used to wear when she knew him. Azor Mirtallev, Minister of the Interior, probably wore nice suits, too. They were all in it together. Jamie didn't know what she knew about those respectable men who ran Arbeztan: the things she'd seen and survived and would never speak of. Jamie wore his suit to an office, probably - some kind of UN government office where probably everyone else wore suits, and met at fancy restaurants and drank scotch together. Maybe they wore the same suits as Mirtallev. Whereas the Karth wore kofranu and herded sheep, and no one not born to the mountains cared what happened to them. 

Jamie asked, "Did the man who threaten you mention Mirtallev?"

She was sullen now. "Yeah." 

"It was the Karth who killed him. So a lot of Arbezi citizens - all the people who liked Mirtallev - they all want revenge." 

Jamie was looking at her intently. She didn't like it. To avoid his stare, she started stirring her coffee again.

"Here's what I'm thinking," he said. "Suppose this guy had already seen you around. He'd recognized you but he didn't care; you've both come a long way from Arbeztan. But then Mirtallev was killed. And this guy, he's out for revenge. He wants Karth blood. And he thinks of you." 

Terror spurted along her nerves. Her hand jumped, banging her coffee cup, making hot liquid slop over the side.

"Because you're Karth," he finished. "I'm right about that, aren't I?"

She had never told him that. She'd never told him anything about herself. It was the same with the government men who questioned her at the VA. That was a survival skill: you kept your mouth shut, you didn't let anyone know anything, you kept all your secrets because anything you said would be used against you. 

"I saw you at Marchev," he explained. "After the first week, when you started talking again, I saw you with some of the male prisoners. Not the Manzari men, but the ones who spoke Karthic together. You knew them, and you spoke Karthic too. I wasn't blind."

Her heart was still pounding. What he said was true: she had talked to Jaro and the others when they were reunited in the camp, after the UN people came and the guards ran away. It hadn't occurred to her that any of the foreigners were watching and could tell Manzari from Karthic. She had been too overwhelmed with happiness to recognize her comrades, the ones still alive. She'd been so glad to use her voice and speak her language again. "But you don't understand Karthic!" she blurted. 

"Well, you're right about that. Don't understand it, don't speak it - but I know it when I hear it. Also, I've seen your birth certificate. When I was working to get you repatriated, I had to collect all your official records to prove you were an American citizen. Your parents' birthplace is listed on it. They're both from a village called Damrot, Arbeztan. I found Damrot on a map. It's pretty high up in the Kar-Paval mountains. So your parents were Karth, weren't they?"

"My parents are dead," she retorted, finding her voice. "So they're nothing. And what I am, is no one's business."

"Will you look at me? This isn't about me. Why should I care if you're Karth? But that man who stalked you in Boston; he cares a lot. If it's about revenge, then he wasn't just having fun with you. He'll be waiting for you if you go back there. Him and his Arbezi friends. It's not safe." 

Her hands were trembling. Of course he was right - there was nothing wrong or illegal about being Karth. After she was taken prisoner it had been life and death to hide it, and she'd gotten used to being frightened all the time. Of course everyone at Marchev knew she was Karth when she first arrived, because she'd been captured with Matik and Orvatu and she'd been wearing the clothes of a Karth man. But her ethnicity made her a scapegoat to the other women, who were all Manzari farm people from the land around Vuro. They pushed her away from the food and shoved her forward for the worst jobs. So she quit speaking Karthic to avoid calling attention to her differentness, and pretty soon everyone forgot, and let her be one of them. She let her voice rust. Also she couldn't speak English, ever, because the guards would probably kill her right away if they learned she was American. They'd pound her face to sludge and hide her body. So she became a locked box full of secrets. When Jamie came she stayed locked. In America, at the VA and that other place, she stayed locked. Exposure meant death. 

She tried to calm herself. She was safe; this was America, and Jamie wasn't accusing her of anything. He was on her side. "He called me a _kartakji_ dog," she admitted. The man's twisted smile came back to her. He was probably waiting at her T stop now or outside the front door of her building, with his friends maybe, licking his thick lips and watching for her. "I'll change apartments," she muttered. "I'll have the money if I can get my deposit back."

"That won't be enough. He wants you dead, and he'll find you. I know how these people think; I worked in Arbeztan for three years. You can't go back to Boston."

He didn't get it - he sat there is in suit thinking she had options like he did. He could move to another city, no problem. He had the kind of life where you could summon a car and driver with a phone call. He had friends who did him all-night favors. He wasn't afraid of new places; he didn't keep to a small radius where the familiar shape of things was reassuring. For her, just walking past a knot of strange men made her heart race. She needed her home, her door that locked the world out, the familiar walls and bed and the liquor store, even the job she could do in her sleep. Moving away and starting over was something normal people could manage, maybe. But she wasn't normal. "I'm staying where I am. If they're coming for me, I'll wait for them in my own home. At least then it will be over." 

"Angel. Maybe I can help. I'd like to." 

A laugh burst from her mouth, rude and loud. He had reached to touch her hand. She jerked it away. 

"Tell me this," he said. "Just trust me, okay? I brought you all this way. Right? I'm trying to keep you safe. Tell me one thing: How good is your Karthic?"

Why was he asking? "My parents spoke it. It was my first language." 

"Are you fluent still? Can you converse in it?" 

She still dreamt in Karthic sometimes. She nodded. 

"You said when we met that you'd been living with the Karth in the mountains. You'd been hiking up there when the fighting broke out in Vuro and the foothills, and you were trapped. A Karth family took you in. You were with them for months before you were kidnapped and brought to Marchev."

Yes. She had told him that. 

"What was the village called?" 

"Nevsanek." 

"And those Karth men at the camp, the ones I saw you talking to. Did you know them from Nevsanek?" 

"Some of them. Why are you asking all this?" 

"And this man." He took two photographs from his briefcase and put them on the table in front of her, on the plastic red-checked tablecloth. The first was an indistinct shot of a man gaunt and bearded, lying on a cot. The second was a posed shot taken against the familiar gray of a UN tent. The cheeks were more hollow than she remembered, the stare stonier. Still, the face was so familiar she had to look away. But then she had to look again. "This man was a prisoner, too. Another Karth." 

She stayed silent.

"Listen to me." He leaned forward. "I do translation for the State Department, all right? I happen to know they're looking to hire a Karthic interpreter right now. The man in this photo - I already know his name. If you know it too, that's enough to prove your background. It proves you're Karth. I can use that - I can go back to my bosses and pull strings and try to get you a job. You'd be in the Washington area, near me. It would pay decently and it would get you out of danger, and I'd be close by to help any way I can."

It seemed too much like something from a TV show. She was being tempted to say a name. Was she being tricked into betrayal? But that was ridiculous - this was Jamie, who had saved her from Marchev and had just saved her again. A job, he said. A job near him. He was looking at her with so much hope and eagerness. And he already knew the name of the man in the photo, so what was the harm if she said it too? 

She worked her jaw, which felt rusty. "Jaro Kozlan," she said hoarsely.

His smile burst forth into brightness and warmth. "That's it. That's him. Now I'm going to get you somewhere safe where you can rest, and then I'm going to go talk to some people about you." He reached for her hand again. "Just trust me," he said. "Let me try." 


	11. callahan's pitch to quentin.  Memory of how he met her.  Pitch to angel.

Quentin leaned back in his chair, either unimpressed or pretending to be. "Who is she, again?" 

"Angel Morjo. Who she is, is our windfall. The answer to your prayers." 

"Hm. I think I remember. This is that girl." Quentin's ruddy face was thoughtful. "That American girl, the one you found in the detention camp. She contacted you?"

"Last night. She lives in Boston. She's being threatened." He explained briefly. "She needs a safe place to hole up, and we need her information. So it's a match made in heaven. She speaks fluent Karthic, she knows the mountains, she lived with those people during the war. She'll know a lot about the terrain, the caves, the layout of their villages. And she knows the separatists. She identified Jaro Koslan from a photograph taken at the camp. She's everything we could ask for."

"I suppose we could put her up for a couple weeks while we question her. But the fact that she speaks Karthic doesn't help us." Quentin pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "It's not like we can put a civilian into the cage with our shackled assassin and ask her to translate while we interrogate him."

"Actually, I've solved that problem."

He laid out his proposal. It was smart. Some would call it brilliant. 

Quentin stroked his jaw. Then he laughed. "And just when do you want to set this up?" 

"As soon as possible. Right now I've got her in a motel east of Alexandria. I don't want to leave her there long. She's twitchy. Being alone and cooped up all day isn't going to do anything for her mental health. She needs a stable environment. We can work with her, settle her down. She's-- well, she went through a lot in Arbeztan. But she'll pay off. She'll be valuable. And we don't have anyone else on tap who speaks Karthic."

"I got word from Sokhrina. The shooter has made it through surgery. He's stable, and expected to do fine. We're making plans for transfer to the US. In three or four days, we should have him at the medical hold at Theta Block." He buzzed the front desk. "Corinne. Bring us some coffee, please." He frowned and chewed the inside of this cheek. "There's security to think about. We wouldn't have time to investigate her background and get her a clearance." 

"She could stay on the base as a guest, with a restricted pass. It's done all the time for visiting professors. It's never a problem." 

"She'd still have to pass a security intake on arrival, like everyone else."

"I'm telling you, she won't have any problem with that. She's not political or military or connected to anything or anyone. She was just a kid from Boston who went to Prague on an English teaching gig. She went to Arbeztan on vacation, that's all, and got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I asked a friend to run her name - she's never gotten so much as a speeding ticket. She's been working as a secretary for a church, for chrissake. She'll pass." 

"What denomination?" 

"Methodist." 

"Hmm. Suspicious." No smile touched Quentin's lips, but Callahan suspected an impenetrable joke had just gone over his head. "All right. I'll get started on the paperwork. But now, tell me." His look was shrewd and amused. "Where do you see your own involvement in all this?" 

"I should be the one who questions her." 

"Ah. The other shoe drops." 

"She's got some problems. She's not going to trust just anyone. But she knows me, and I'm the one she called for help. She'll open up to me, faster and better than to anyone else." 

"And for that, you'll need your security clearance returned to you. How did I know you were going to say that?" 

Callahan relaxed inwardly, tasting victory. "Because you're a brilliant man and a great leader." 

"Glad you've noticed. I'll make the calls and we'll get her set up." Callahan was turning away when Quentin added, "There is one more thing I want from you." 

"What's that?" 

"The Mirtallev shooting - there's film of it. Security cameras in the hotel caught it from different angles. I'd like you to have a look at the recordings. You knew Mirtallev; you knew his security detail. I want you to go over it with our interrogator. Maybe you can get some clues about what happened, that will give him an opening with the assassin. Call him when you get to Theta." 

"Who is it?" 

"Paul Cabrese." 

Callahan did not change expression. "I'll do that," he said easily. 

As he left, Quentin called out after him, "Nice work."

"I told you before. I'm wasted in Media."

This time, it didn't sound like a plea. 

.

He was usually a careful driver, but he had a lead foot as he sped toward the White Willows motel. The name Paul Cabrese kept trying to insert itself uncomfortably into his thoughts. 

She took a while to open the door. He was disappointed like he'd been the day before - she looked as worn and puffy as she had in the cafe, in a long skirt and baggy shirt once again. What had happened to the girl who was brittle and jagged as broken glass, as fierce as a downed eagle with a broken wing? He'd walk past her on the street now and not turn his head. It was like the girls from his hometown, who'd been hard-edged and quick, brushing up against him in the halls or up in the football stands with a breathy heat that had stopped his heart. They'd stalked the town's commercial strip in feral packs and after dark they'd recline on the hoods of their boyfriends' cars in the busted lot behind the cinema and flick red falls of ash from their cigarette tips. But after graduation they changed. He left home for U Va and when he came back at Christmas to see his parents, their sharp edge was already dulling. There were accidental babies that kept them up, and pills, the collection agency on the line, long shifts behind the cash register, bad boyfriends who left dark moons swelling under their eyes. So it shouldn't have surprised him how Angel had changed. But he missed the quick nervous girl he'd been imagining all these years. 

The day he'd discovered her was his second day at Marchev. He'd been in his tent. He was planning to spend all his time there since the stench of Marchev made him want to vomit. The U.N people were fine with ignoring him and letting him do nothing, since his position was decorative and he had no useful skills. His peacekeeping unit had come into Marchev the day before and immediately burst into competent, efficient labor, setting up a tent city outside the compound's chain-link fence. They showed him the tiny tent that would be his private domain and after that they didn't bother with him, and that was just fine with him - because he could barely breathe; he could barely think straight. And when he did think, he thought about Azor and felt sicker than ever.

Azor was why he was here. He'd been pulled out of the capital because their public friendship had become an embarrassment now that rumors of war crimes were erupting. The week he left Sokhrina, a Swiss weekly had put that tanned, handsome face on their cover. The caption below read, "Smiling Butcher?" 

So he was surprised when an aide stuck his head into the tent. The aide was Dutch. "Sorry, sir. They're calling for you. They want you to come talk to one of the females. They sent me to get you." 

The word "females" struck him as derogatory, a word meant for animals. 

"What for?" 

"One of them speaks English." 

"So? You speak English. We all speak English." 

"She speaks English like you do. She cursed at one of our nurses. They think she's an American." 

The aide led him to a large tent which was serving as a rough infirmary for the eighteen women who had been found alive. The male survivors, over two hundred, were being housed inside the building that had been the guards' barracks. He'd heart that several of the sickest were going to be flown out the next day to a hospital in Germany. 

In the tent there was little space between the cots, and the UN nurses moved quietly like efficient gardeners. The place was eerily quiet. Some of the patients were barely recognizable as women, their faces having become wizened and sexless, the pink of their scalps visible through patchy hair. Others were shockingly young, barely even teenagers. Some cried without making a sound. The aide led him to a cot. The person in it was hunched and scabbed, sitting on the edge of the bed and gazing blankly at the floor. 

"Hi," he said. "They tell me you speak some English. I'm Jamie Callahan." 

She remained inert. He wasn't sure what to say to her. He spoke slowly. It was all right, he said. He was from the UN. He just wanted to help. 

She did not look up or show any sign she heard him, so he repeated the words in Arbezi and then in Manzar dialect. He tried not to look at the weeping sores on her arms. Some of her fingers were crooked and swollen. He couldn't tell if she were fifteen or thirty. Her face and posture were old but in her smallness and frailness she seemed like a child. 

"Can you tell me your name? I'm here to help." He pointed to the insignia on his pocket. "I'm with the U.N." he repeated inanely. 

She remained staring at the floor. He was not sure what to do, so he waited. He felt foolish. 

"Go," she muttered. "Go. Get the fuck away. Please, just go away." 

Chills crawled over his skin. She had said it in English. He recognized the accent: east coast and blue-collar. An all-American girl. 

She remained still as a corpse. Her eyes were blank. 

"Where are you from? New York? New Jersey?" Jesus. She must be someone's sister and someone's daughter. Her family was missing her. How long had she been in this hell-hole? "Is there someone I can contact for you?" 

No response. 

He waited for a while, thoughts in a whirl. Too stunned to figure out what he could say to her. Finally he stumbled back to the refuge of his tent and sat down hard on his bed. He stared at the grey canvas wall. It shouldn't matter what she was, of course. An American prisoner of war wasn't more important than any other woman, and all of them had suffered the same horrors. But he understood her - he could picture her life in the US: in a town or city somewhere in the northeast where she'd eaten ice cream from the truck in summer, and gone to football games and grown up watching American TV and eating Christmas dinner, flunking chemistry like he had, holding a job behind a counter, saving to buy a car. All in a hometown he'd probably heard of or even passed through, where a family had loved her like his own family loved him. 

He roused himself and went to the communications tent and called the consular officer in the capital. Soon he had what he wanted: a list of Americans who'd been reported missing during the war. The first job was to figure out who in hell she was. 

As he was returning to the infirmary, one of the German nurses looked hard at him. She said in English, "We are organizing a team of forensic scientists from Sweden. They will begin excavating the pits and identifying remains. For the ICC." He nodded. She kept staring as if she weren't satisfied. "It is like Dachau," she said. She glared at him dangerously. Finally he understood. She had heard who he was. He was the dear friend of Azor Mirtallev, smiling butcher. 

The forensic scientists might identify bodies in the pits, but there would never be a trial. It was bullshit to think the International Criminal Court would touch this. There would be no war crimes tribunal because there was no one to arrest. The men who had been guards at Marchev had fled as the UN detachment had arrived. They had not been regular army, Callahan was almost sure - they were paramilitary thugs, and a lot of them were probably connected to Azor's Rachatan. They were big men in their hometowns and now they'd melt back into their neighborhoods and families. They'd tell tales of heroism and be hailed as not sadists and rapists and torturers, but fathers and husbands and patriots. Their towns would close ranks around them.

As for Azor himself: he had been a good and useful friend to America. Now that his star was rising in Parliament, he would remain a good and useful friend. 

He pulled a chair up next to the woman's cot. She was lying in the same position she'd been in when he left.

"I have a list of names," he said. She turned her head pointedly away. "I'm hoping one of them is you." 

Five American or dual-citizenship women had been reported missing during the war. It was completely possible that they'd all turned up safe and sound long ago, and their families had never called in to have their names taken off the files. He'd also gotten a list of names of female American citizens - not known to be missing - who were known to have been living in the region around Marchev before the war. Most of these women had Manzari names. He guessed they were ethnic Manzari born in the US to traditional families, then sent back to the old country to marry cousins according to tradition and cement family alliances. 

The woman in the cot wouldn't look at him. He read the names aloud. She didn't seem to hear or care. With a sinking heart he stood up. He was halfway to the door when he heard her voice. 

"Carana." 

He turned back. She had closed her eyes. 

He looked over the list. "Carana Silvestri? That's you?" 

She didn't answer. 

He studied her. Carana Silvestri had been described as blond and five foot seven. This woman was shorter, and her brittle hair was dark. 

Carana Silvestri had been reported missing along with her traveling companion. The other woman was shorter and had brown hair and brown eyes. "You're the friend," he breathed. "You're Angel Morjo." She crumpled suddenly, her knobby limbs drawing in, and she put her hands up to hide her face. Her shoulders were shaking. She was crying, and he had to look away before he got sick. 

.

The man who had reported the girls missing was Jason Arbuth. He had run a short-lived business called TeachPrague that imported young Americans as English tutors to the well-heeled. The business had run into legal problems and had folded last May after just two years. An investigation had been started, then dropped - after a bribe was paid, Callahan assumed - and Arbuth had gone back to America. A quick search revealed he was now managing a car lot in Jersey. 

"Of course I remember those girls," he said. "The two of them, they went on a trip that spring and didn't show up for work after their break was over. I talked to my other staffers about what they knew. It turned out one of them had lent Carana a backpack. They'd gone on a hiking trip is what he told me, but he didn't know where. So I checked their apartment and that's where I found the note on the table. Carana had left it. "We're headed for Vuro, Arbeztan," it said, and it gave the date they'd left and said they'd be back at the end of break. I gave it to the cops. I wouldn'ta worried about them being a couple days late, except that by then, Arbeztan was in the news. The war started there, the same time they left." He paused. "Hey. Do you know something? Have you found anything out about them - is that what this is about?" 

"Not necessarily. Just a routine follow-up." 

"Carana's parents, they're still pretty ripped up. They call me every month or two. Janine and Mike. They came to Prague looking for her and talked to all the staffers, but nothing turned up. Janine still keeps after the state department, I think. A real tragedy. Carana was a great girl - fun, beautiful. Everyone loved her. And the other girl too. Angel. She was the quieter one. Reliable. No trouble out of either of them. A freaking tragedy." 

Two years ago, Angel Morjo and Carana Silvestri had been young Americans on the loose in Prague, two among thousands of expates there, having fun, living it up. They'd taken off for a spring fling, not realizing what they were riding into. They would have been wearing sandals and sunglasses, backpacks slung across one shoulder, postcards in their pockets addressed to friends back home. While he'd been in Sokhrina drinking with Azor, cheering at the dog-races, pretending not to see the plans his dear friend was setting in motion, the girls had boarded a train, and that train had carried them straight into hell. A week and a half later, they'd been declared missing. Now two years later, the Morjo girl turned up in a concentration camp. And the other one: Carana Silvestri. Where was she? 

He spent the next week sitting beside Angel's cot. At first he asked her questions. Later he just told her stories of his own family, his past, not expecting anything back from her but hoping to remind her of the American life she'd had once, whatever it must have looked like. It was a week before she spoke to him. Then, after two weeks, he'd put his hand on hers one evening as a good night gesture, and she'd gripped his fingers. "Don't go yet," she'd muttered.

Now, thought, she was different. They were both different. But she was still in trouble and she was still his responsibility. He could fix things for her. He had to try.

"Theta base," he explained. "Officially it's the Hunter Paulson Center for International Studies. Sort of an auxiliary training site for American government workers heading out to sensitive areas of the world. Foreign service officers pass through there, but also military personnel, civilian corps, government personnel. We teach sixty languages, also cultural studies, classes in the governance of various countries, security issues, and so on. You'd come aboard as a consultant in the Cultural Studies department - an expert on Karthic language and culture. They've granted you a six-month position. You'd live on the base. Meals are free, and you get a stipend, and you'll be safe."

She stared. "What does that mean? What would I have to do?" 

He had managed Quentin perfectly. He had set everything up so well. She'd be safe, and he'd be there to look after her. He explained: she'd be teaching Karthic, not in front of a class but to a linguist at the base. She and the linguist would make recordings and design lesson plans for individual study. And, he added, his office was also at Theta. He'd be right there all the time. 

Her hands had a tremor, he noticed, more pronounced than they had yesterday when she had stirred her coffee. Her body was ungainly but her hands gave him a pang. They were so small that he could cup them easily. Several of the fingers were crooked, the nails short and bitten. They had been injured at Marchev, he remembered. She had held her spoon with her left hand.

"My apartment in Boston," she said, leaping up and pacing in front of him. "The rent is due next week. What would I do about it?"

"We can take care of it. We'll give you a moving stipend. You can use for to bring your things down, or we can have them packed and put in storage. Short-term housing units on the base are all furnished". Actually, he didn't know if there was a moving stipend, but it didn't matter. If the company wouldn't take care of her, he'd do it himself - call the landlord, get her things moved out. Whatever she needed. 

She sat down suddenly, swallowing hard, as if she were ill. "Are you feeling okay?" he asked. "Something wrong - something I can do for you?" 

"No, I'm fine. A little sick. I'll be fine." 

He had a small misgiving, picturing her at her intake. He could imagine questions she might be asked, that she wouldn't want to answer. "There is one thing. When you get to Theta, you'll have to meet with the security people. They'll ask you questions about where you've lived, any trouble you've been in, and so forth. They'll check into what you say. If they catch you in a lie, they kick you out." 

She turned on him. It was a tiger's movement. "What would I have to lie about?"

"Nothing," he said, spreading his hands. But then he added quietly: "St. Luke's." 

She glared at him for a moment, then turned away abruptly. A finger of doubt touched the back of his neck. He shook it off. 


	12. angel at theta.  security interview.

Angel sat on her narrow bed. The walls of her new quarters stared back at her. They didn't blink. Neither did she, because it seemed like a contest. She hugged her knees, infuriated by the spots that danced before her eyes. Her head was pounding. 

She has been at Theta for fourteen hours. 

She hadn't slept in three nights. 

Without sleep, she was stuck in time. The sun had risen and set and risen and set and risen again and she had watched it through increasingly dazed and glassy eyes. The rest of the world had advanced along the calendar day by day, but for her it was still Thursday and showed no sign of ever being anything else. She recognized the slow, menacing creep of unreason pushing itself into her thoughts. It was like going down a slide, faster and faster while everything solid and dependable dissolved. Before Jamie had marooned her here, she had wanted to grab at him and shout the truth - _I haven't slept in forever; there's spots before my eyes and I know you think it's Sunday but for me it's been Thursday all along and I can't get out of it_ \- but she had just enough self-control left to keep her mouth shut. She'd been an insider in the Land of Crazy before. And what was the first rule of Crazy? Simple. Never let them know. 

The drive from Washington had taken them through forests. She had gotten sicker as they went. Trees had hemmed them in, until finally the car stopped at a high metal gate with booths on both sides and a trio of guards that Jamie waved his badge at. "One visitor. Angel Morjo; she's on your list." The gate had slid apart with no more fanfare and Jamie had driven on - and what lay beyond, to Angel's astonishment, looked like a college campus: quads and buildings; people in dress shirts or suits, a few in soldiers' uniforms. A benign, orderly look was on the place.

She had expected something different. She thought a base meant concrete barracks that reared like fungal growths from barren rutted mud. There would be a grinding metal gate, soldiers on guard, trucks roaring back and forth throughout the night, and a double chain-link fence to pen her in. She thought of screams and gunshots too, but reminded herself sternly that an American base would not have those things. There would be no prisoners with blunt shovels gouging pits in the mud. There would be no Happy Rooms with cracked walls for her to scrub, using a bucket of ice-grey water with clotted floating rags and a sharp metal handle; she would not have to drag the bucket to the back door of the kitchen and push it over so that the water, red now, with clots, could run out across the concrete slab. 

She had hoped to collapse as soon as they arrived but Jamie had steered her into a building called Central, all metal and smoked glass. "Skeleton crew on the weekends," Jamie said. She filled out forms and was given an ID. She had worked hard to keep from screaming at the insect-like buzz of the clerks and at the woman who took hold of her hand without asking and pushed her fingers, one by one, into an inkpad. There were a thousand forms. She signed forms for confidentiality, others for setting up a bank account. She was instructed on the temporary ID, which she had to display clipped to her shirt at all times. They gave her a debit card and Jamie tried to explain to her about the store, the cafeteria, the bistro. She didn't let him know that his voice was buzzing and she had lost the capacity to understand human speech. Finally he had led her along a diagonal path across the quad to where a line of identical two story brick row-houses stood side by side, each with three steps leading to a square porch of concrete with a dull red door beyond. 

"There's six units in each house, but this one, Number 42, isn't occupied. You're going to be the only person living here." He had insisted on carrying her suitcase. "There's the sensor - just wave your badge at it. You're in Suite A." They entered. The apartment was nearly bare inside. "The building was closed last month due to maintenance problems. They haven't gotten around to renovating it yet, but they couldn't find anywhere else for you to live on such short notice. The good news is that it'll be quiet. The bad news is, the AC might decide to quit at any moment. But it was the best Housing could do. I told them it was okay. Thought you might like the privacy."

"Thanks." she managed. Her voice echoed hollowly inside her skull. 

He reminded her that her meeting with the security people was in two hours. "I'll be back to take you over there. Until then, maybe you should try to rest." She looked at him suspiciously. Maybe he could see the crazywoman lurking behind her eyes. 

When she was alone, she rubbed at her forearms. Her skin had developed a peculiar crawling feeling that was not quite itchiness but somehow worse. She jumped up. Out the rear window, she could see what must be the edge of the base. The grassy plain curved upward like the rim of a shallow bowl. Beyond was forest - mile after mile of it, and then layers of tree-covered hills, and in the far distance, a bluish heap of mountains lining the horizon like ripples on a lake. 

She walked through the apartment and opened drawers and looked in closets. For furnishings, it had almost nothing but a bed - sheets and blankets piled at the foot - and in the dining room a blond wood table with four chairs. Three bent hangers hung in the closet. The pantry held three mini-boxes of Corn Flakes, a canister of raisins, a rusty iron on the floor. She made herself lie down despite the crawling feeling in her skin. She fell onto the bed, taking the folded blanket as a pillow. 

Her mind drifted. Marchev rose, and she dug her nails into her skin to chase it off. Then she saw Jaro. Not the column of walking bones she'd last seen at Marchev, but Jaro as she'd known him in the mountains, strong and hard as a mountain himself. He was at Nevsanek now, she was sure. Right at this moment he was lounging outside a cluster of stone houses in one of the topmost villages, flicking sparks from his cigarette and making plans and arguing, his voice ringing out over the other men. Finally, she saw Carana standing with the blond boy from the train. The black spots danced. The came together into a buzzing cloud that coalesced and pushed down on her eyes.

She awoke confused, dragged back to consciousness by a throbbing noise that wouldn't leave her alone. Gunfire? Thunder? No. She was in a bed under a clean blanket. She was at the new place, Jamie's place. Theta. The new apartment. And someone was pounding at the door.

"Sorry," she mumbled, standing in her doorway and raking her fingers through her hair. She was aware that Jamie was looking at her with concern. "I was asleep. I'm ready, though." The brief nap hadn't been enough to reset her inner calendar. It was still Thursday to her. But she felt a little more firmly anchored in reality, and her headache had let up. 

At Wills Halls a guard glanced at Jamie's badge and waved them in. A man in a dark suit was waiting in the lobby. "Hi, Jamie. Is this Ms. Morjo? I'm Charles Sarai, deputy security chief. Come in." He smiled, but she wasn't fooled. He wasn't someone to trust. "We're ready for you."

She understood Jamie's weighted look. _Do it right. Don't let me down._

The interrogation room was clean and orderly. A blond young man in uniform was already seated at the conference table. He had an open notepad in front of him. Sarai took a seat beside him. No blood spatters were visible on the walls. Nevertheless, her skin had gone cold and was trying desperately to crawl off her body so it could slither away under the door. She found a spot against the wall and pressed her back into it.

"Have a seat," said the deputy security chief. 

What choice did they leave her? She sat across from them and stuck her hands under the table, clenched together. Spots were dancing on the walls and her face was hot. The blond man smiled and told her to relax.

The questions were straightforward. Yes, she had been born in Boston, grown up there, no foreign travel. Mother and brother dead when she was three; a road accident, a drunk driver. She had gone to Boston College. Her father died during her junior year. No, no living relatives in America. She was not a member of any communist party. 

"Any other political organizations, foreign or domestic?" 

She stared blankly at them. "I think I joined the Young Democrats in college." 

She had never been in trouble with the law. Her first time out of the US had been the job at TeachPrague.

"How did you hear about the position? Why did you apply?"

"They put an ad in the BC Eagle. I didn't know what I was going to do after graduation. It was someplace new to go. I'd never traveled anywhere. It seemed exciting."

The questions slowed. The blond man gave her a meaningful look. "Spring break of that year," he said. "You left Prague with Ms. Silvestri. What happened?"

She remembered the train, the dark, the woods. "We came into Vuro on the train. We were supposed to get off together and go hiking in the mountains. My parents were from there and I wanted to see it. But we argued just before we reached Vuro. Carana had met some British guys. They were heading for the coast, and she wanted us to change our plans and go with them. I didn't want to. In the end we split up. I got off at the Vuro station. She stayed on the train." The forest had been black along the tracks. "We were supposed to meet back in Prague one week later. Get back to our apartment in time for the spring term." 

How frightening the trees had been in the night, how massive around her while she crouched so small in a silence deeper than any she'd ever known, a shadow among shadows with the eyeless moon too high to save her.

"What happened next?"

She gripped her hands together. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. 

"Take your time." 

She had walked through the city, she told them. The day had been warm. She had asked directions into the mountains, but she spoke Karthic and the people in Vuro didn't speak it. The locals pointed toward the looming peaks that lay east. She had set off with her pack. She clambered up and up, not sure where she was going. It got dark. She was lost. She pulled out her sleeping bag and curled up on the ground. That's when she heard the first explosions. 

"I didn't know what it was at first. But it kept going, and I saw bright flashes. I could hear some people screaming. I think some others came up into the mountains, running away from the fighting. I heard them crying, and then gunshots. I didn't move. I thought I'd be safest if I stayed still, because it was so dark. But in the morning I climbed higher, to get away. I was lost and hungry when I finally came into a village where people spoke Karth. They gave me a place to stay. But by the next day there were soldiers, Arbezi paramilitary, sweeping up the mountains. There was no way out; the only safety was higher in the peaks. So I ended up at Nevsanek. A couple times, in the beginning, I packed my things and tried to go down - but always I saw soldiers there, or men who weren't soldiers but had guns and were prowling on the low slopes. So I decided to stay until it was safe. But it never got safe." 

She had been captured, she explained, while collecting water. She had been chased and thrown into a truck and when they threw her out she was a prisoner at Marchev. She was held there from early spring until fall when the UN people came. "I didn't know how much time had passed. A nurse with the UN said it was October 8. So I had been there about seven months." It sounded like nothing as she said the words. Did these men know that seven months could last forever?

"Have you been in touch with anyone you knew in Beztan? Jaro Kozlan, or any of the Karth villagers?"

"Not since I left. I haven't spoken to any of them or heard from them. I wouldn't know how to get in touch if I wanted to. There are no land lines in the village, and cell phones don't work up there."

"And after the UN entered the camp? What happened next?" 

Her memories of that time were mixed up. The time had telescoped in and out. "I was there for a while. The UN people were trying to get the prisoners back to their homes, or to hospitals that could treat them. It was hard because I think so many hospitals in the Manzari region had been burned or looted. Jamie helped me get back to America. I was at a VA hospital first." She remembered what Jamie had said about lying. Reluctantly she added, "I went to another hospital after that. When I got out I went to Boston. That's where I've been since." 

"All right." The two men looked at each other and seemed to come to an agreement. "That's all we have," said the blond. "Thank you for your time." It was over so abruptly, she wasn't sure they meant it.

When she got out to the lobby, Jamie was still there. He sprang up as soon as he saw her. "How did it go?"

"I don't know. It was quick." She still felt shaky - from sleeplessness and from the questioning. Jamie was looking at her a little too hard, and she knew what he was thinking. "I didn't lie."

"Okay. Good."

"Can you show me the way back to my apartment? If I don't sleep soon, my brain is going to turn to water." 

"One more stop." They had come up an ivy-lined path to a two-story building. It had a porch that was almost home-like, with a basin of flowers. But the door was the same as all the others, a dull metallic red with an ID entry system. "I got a call while you were in the intake. They've scheduled you a meeting. It's at an office is in this building: Helverd Hall." 

Another meeting. All she wanted was to be alone. "What's it for?" she asked, but she was past caring, really. But Jamie had a strange look suddenly. A worried look. "Why?' she said, taking a step back. "What's going on?" 

"His name is Paul Cabrese," said Jamie. "His office is on the second floor." 

"What's going on?" she repeated.

"He's - sort of a counselor. Look, I have a class to teach in twenty minutes. Your quarters are back that way." He pointed. "If you get lost, ask anyone. Tell them you're staying in building 42."

The little house looked malevolent, suddenly. The windows watched. The basin of flowers on the porch might hide a camera or a tripwire. "Do I have to?" she muttered. 

Jamie was already walking away.


	13. cabrese pov.  angel, then callahan/film

Paul Cabrese was taken aback by the woman who slouched into his office. 

Four years ago, James Callahan had sat right here, head in his hands, making his confession. Cabrese had built a mental image of the girl based on Callahan's words. He imaged a broken nymph, dark and quick, with hollow cheeks and watchful eyes. 

This woman was a whole different species. She was almost an offensive presence: slovenly, with a gritted jaw that advertised hostility from the moment she walked in. She was squarish in build. Her clothes covered her like a sack and her hair was a mass of greasy curls. He noted the fine tremor of her hands. She looked at the sofa across from him as if loathe to sit on it. When she finally did, she met his gaze with a confrontational glare, pretending to be tougher than she was. A shattered object, he thought, badly glued together. Up the road at the Block where he did most of his work, she'd fit right in - put her in an orange jumpsuit and frame her in iron bars. But in the orderly, crisply ironed world of Theta, she was incongruous. 

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked.

He waited out her discomfort. At last she muttered, "Standard procedure, I guess." 

"Pretty much. New employees get run through security check. Your name came up with an asterisk." 

No answer.

"Busy few days for you," he tried. "Leaving Boston, coming here, starting a new job. At least it's only seventy. Just wait until summer when you get to enjoy our famous Virginia sun. Did they find you a place to stay on the campus?" 

Silence. She was going to make him work for it.

"I know you just came from your security intake. But this isn't anything like that. It's not a test you have to pass. It's just you and me getting acquainted."

"You're some kind of psychologist." She stuck her jaw out like a boxer. "I don't want to get acquainted."

Ah. So it was like that.

"All right. Then we'll cut all the small talk and get to the point. I have your old records from the VA and St. Luke's. I have all the records Jamie Callahan collected on you, from birth to college age, when he was working to get you repatriated from Arbeztan. I know your background already." He was almost certain how she'd respond - and sure enough, she bared her teeth, top and bottom, like any cornered primate. "Anything you want to say?"

He could see her mind whipping through a series of possible retorts and deflections. "It was a long time ago." 

"Not that long," he said mildly.

She shifted her gaze to a spot on the wall and muttered, "Hope those files were entertaining." She crossed her arms, began jigging her foot.

"The records were pretty slim, to tell the truth. St. Luke's sent fifty pages, but all of it was one-line notes. 'Remains uncooperative. Declines to participate.' "

"Yeah, well. That's me." 

He smiled. "You're still uncooperative, then." 

"Always." 

He had the feeling she was playing a part - the rebel, the bad kid in a leather jacket who made a point of flipping off the principal. "I'm not so interested in dredging up the past. You had a hard time but you moved on, which is all to your credit. The past is only meaningful as it informs the present. But I do worry that you coming here and teaching Karthic might stir up some bad memories."

"Nope. I don't have any memories."

"Well, that's good. You can just come by and see me twice a week. To make sure it stays that way."

She started. "That's not necessary. Really. I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Actually, yes. It's necessary, because it's going to be in your contract. Twice a week. As a condition of employment."

"You're kidding me. They can do that? That's not even legal."

"It's legal. It's common here. It's why I have a job. It's the reason for this office." He locked her eyes. "You understand you're in a whole new world. It's a government installation, there's a military culture here, there's weapons, there's guards, there's a focus on security. And your employer, who is also my employer, has a certain way of doing things. " He turned back to charm. "I'll be honest - you're probably one of the most interesting people I'm going to get to meet all year. I want things to work out so that you can stay and I can get to know you. They'll be bringing you your contract later today. Please sign. I promise I'm not so terrible."

She would sign. Of course she would. She had nowhere else to go but back to Boston, where she claimed that a man was threatening her life.

"Whatever," she said. 

He unlocked his bottom drawer and pulled out a sample-size bottle of lorazepam. It had only eight pills inside, point-fives - not strong enough to get anyone in trouble, but enough to serve as tangible help and proof of his goodwill. "Why don't you take these with you. They'll help you sleep, and help you relax, and generally take the edge off for the next couple days. You can take one up to every eight hours. They'll help you with all those memories you don't have." He held the bottle out as he opened the door for her. Sullenly she took it. 

"Thanks for coming," he told her. "I'll see you in a few days."

She stomped out gracelessly. He watched her go with misgivings. With curiosity.

.

After she left, he pulled up the files on James Callahan and spent an hour poring over them. He had met Callahan officially only once before, at an EDD, a meeting that had been illuminating but which provided a skewed and partial view of the man. He needed the full records to fill in the blanks. He began with the man's open file, which laid out the basics of Callahan's career moves, his evaluations, honors, special coursework, and a summation of the disciplinary action taken against him. Then he moved on to the closed, or unofficial, file - the one maintained by and for debriefers alone. 

He saw Callahan around Theta base often enough to have a general sense of the man's public persona. He was easygoing and handsome, well-dressed and well-liked. He seemed breezily confident slinging jokes with the guards on watch or chatting with faculty about family or work. When he was alone, though, walking to and from the parking lot, he looked like a different man: morose and withdrawn. The unofficial file supported Cabrese's perception. After Callahan's rough ride four years before, when he'd come under scrutiny and been demoted out of Ambassadorial - "taken a lateral transfer" in corporate parlance - he had settled into Media Analysis and done a decent job. That is, he showed up on time, filed his reports, obeyed his supervisor. But he wasn't happy. And he didn't work too hard at hiding it.

On a more personal note, Cabrese knew Callahan was uncomfortable with him. Twice in the past four years when they happened to be walking toward each other on the footpath, he had seen Callahan turn onto a side path in a clear bid to avoid running into him. Not that that was surprising. 

When he arrived in D building, he found Callahan already set up in the main viewing room. The overhead lights were off and the footage was already playing. Callahan was seated in the back row with the remote in his hand, watching the film on a continuous loop. 

"Hello, Jamie," he said. 

Callahan answered without turning around. "I've been waiting for you. Have a seat. Been going over it a few times already." Then he stood and held out a hand, offered up an easy smile. Whatever he actually felt at their being forced to work together, he was hiding it well. 

Callahan rewound the footage and provided commentary as it ran. "Azor looks like his usual self. He's flirting with that hotel girl, see it? If anything's wrong, he hasn't noticed it yet. Here, this is Chogav, the personal bodyguard. He's talking to Azor as the elevator door opens. That's the shooter's left arm and shoulder coming into the frame. This other man off to the left of Azor, that's Damiric - he's less of a goon than Chogav and more of a crowd-control man. His main job was to run interference and keep people away from Azor when he went out in public. Here's where Chogav realizes that the shooter has a gun. He gets his shot off quick, just not quite quick enough."

On the screen, Azor Mirtallev reeled backward and clapped his hand to his throat and toppled forward. Cabrese glanced at James Callahan, who had turned his head subtly to the side and averted his eyes. The two men had been close in Arbeztan. It had been fairly sadistic of Quentin to assign Callahan the job of reviewing film of a good friend's murder. Was it meant as deliberate punishment? Cabrese knew Quentin only a little. Probably he just hadn't given a thought to Callahan's feelings: in Quentin's world, subjects took their assignments, did their jobs, kept their feelings to themselves. 

He said, "The assassin will arrive at the Block tomorrow. I might need your help on some details when I start questioning him, since you're the resident expert on the man he killed."

"Of course. Anything you need."

Also," Cabrese added. "I might need your help with the new Karthic interpreter. A certain Miss Morjo. I think you two have met before."

Callahan looked back at him steadily.

The staring contest was interrupted by the ringing of Callahan's phone. He reached into his pocket. "Hello? Yes, it is. Four o'clock today? Well, no - I'm just wondering why I wasn't informed in advance. No, of course not. All right." He hung up. Then he stared at the phone in his hand. Then he looked at Cabrese.

Cabrese said, "Four o'clock today in Helvert Hall, room 202. Which is my office, yes. I saw your name on my schedule this morning. I'm looking forward to our meeting."

For a brief moment Callahan remained silent. Then he said quietly, "My last CDD was only four months ago. I'm not due for another until June. And I've been seeing Dr. Johanssen. For years."

"Well, as you know, the company works in mysterious ways." He glanced at his watch. "It's almost three. Let's break for now. You'll need some time to prepare."


	14. cdd

The knock at Cabrese's office door came precisely at four o'clock. 

Callahan entered with an ease to his manner, loose-jointed. He looked just a shade more guarded than he had earlier, but that was only to be expected. Overall, he was doing an excellent impression of a man with nothing to hide. 

"Been a while," he said drily, dropping himself onto the sofa.

"A while since we met here. Four years, I think. I'm glad to see you again." 

He meant it. It was fascinating to get inside a man's skin at different points in his life, under different conditions, and see what changed in him and what stayed stable and formed his core. Personality and character and mood were delicate things, ebbing and flowing across a lifetime like the sliding edge of a glacier. Cabrese had a fine eye for the delicate workings of the human mind, and he loved his work. 

"You've been with Dr. Johanssen since you moved to Media Analysis," he said. "What do you think of him?"

"You want the diplomat's answer or the honest one?"

"Which do you want to give me?"

Callahan snorted at that. "Johanssen's a smart man. No sense of humor. But at least he doesn't usually make me want to put a bullet through his forehead, which is pretty much where I set the bar for these things."

"Excellent." He smiled. "Shall we get started?"

"You gonna wire me up?" Callahan was reaching for his shirt buttons.

"I usually don't bother. But the equipment's in the back if you want it that way. Your choice."

A shrug. It was a shade too elaborate to be honest; unless, of course Mr. Callahan was raised in France. Cabrese chided himself for not reviewing his subject's early background. He was getting sloppy. Too sure of himself, was the problem. Smug.

"Johanssen always wires me," Callahan said in an offhand way. "That's the only reason I asked. I don't care either way."

"Ah, well. Dr. Johannsen doesn't have my infallible intuition." He smiled. "So. Let's go back four years. To the first time we met." 

"Whatever you want." 

"You were just returned from Arbeztan. You'd been back in the US for a few weeks, living in temporary housing with your wife, doing a stint of desk work in DC while you waited for your next overseas posting. You were troubled, at that time, by what you'd seen at that detention camp at the end of Arbeztan's civil war. What was the camp called?"

"Marchev."

"Marchev." He let the word hang in the air. "Marchev was hard on you." 

"It was harder on the prisoners, actually." 

"You felt guilty. Complicit. That still a problem for you?"

"Nope."

Cabrese waited. The clock ticked ostentatiously. Finally Callahan sighed. "Not gonna pass me on that one, are you?" Cabrese smiled but said nothing. Tick. Tock. Tick. Callahan fidgeted. "Okay," he said. "The truth, then."

He fell silent again, but Cabrese could see him preparing himself, shedding the defensive mask and social demeanor he'd worn into the room. Readying his mind for the unavoidable business ahead of him. After seventeen years at the company, Callahan would know that honesty was not only the quickest route out of a debriefing, but the least embarrassing. Better to give it up willingly and maintain some control, then take a beating and end up a shaking mess. "Take your time," he said kindly. "Tell me when you're ready."

A faint sheen of sweat had appeared on Callahan's skin. It was unusual for a veteran to have this much trouble getting started. But finally he rubbed his hands over his face and said. "All right. I just, uh. I have a chance at getting back in. Getting out of Media Analysis. A field which is - you may not believe this - actually way, way too exciting for me. And I don't want to mess up my chances by saying the wrong thing here."

Ah. "Understood. I know about your opportunity. But of course you know that holding back will give you a less favorable review. Noncooperation being, next to mental instability, the worst thing I can say about you."

"Of course." Callahan drew a breath. He launched into it. "Your question: do I still think about Marchev? Answer is yes."

"But you were a thirteen-year veteran at that point. You'd felt responsible for deaths before."

"It was just a matter of scale. I;d had sources die, individuals - mostly people who knew the risks and were selling secrets for money. But Marchev was-- I'd never seen anything like that. Pits full of corpses. That smell. And the people there. The way they looked."

Johanssen's notes were thorough; he and Callahan had discussed Marchev many times already. It was good form to start the CDD with a softball topic and then ease into the hard things. 

Callahan continued. "After a while I made peace with it. That's the job. I did good work in Ambassadorial. I did what I was told. So I learned to live with it."

"Do you think the US was justified in telling you not to interfere with what Mirtallev was doing?"

Every employee constructed his own personal set of excuses to shield himself, so he could keep thinking of himself as a good person. The ones who couldn't do that were the ones that cracked - some toward wild extremes of escapism - daredevil sports, petty crime - and some toward depression, numbing agents and suicide. Others grabbed hold of some other ideology that promised atonement and generally led to treason. Less dramatically, an employee took the bull by the horns as Callahan's wife had done and tendered a letter of resignation. That hardly ever happened, though. The company got its hooks into employees from the moment they started their training. Once you went inside, you learned you were now part of something mighty and noble; you absorbed the company ethos of loyalty, and you had a hard time seeing where the exit lay or imagining any life but the one you were in. This was not by accident. 

Callahan concentrated. "It's so complicated, it's hard to see the big picture. But it's like this. I believe in a strong America. If we stay strong, it's good for the world. Equality, democracy, capitalism, rule of law, freedom of political speech and protection for the little guys. Light of freedom shining across the planet, for all those huddled masses. That's corny, okay, but I'm a believer. I look out across the world, knowing what I know. I know that everyone else out there is trying to get an edge. They're planning violence, dealing weapons, gathering intelligence, making backroom deals to weaken us. So we have to play the game. We play it, because everyone else plays it. And the game is played dirty; that's just a fact." 

"And you're okay with being a part of that." 

"If I'm the one playing," Callahan said slowly, "then it doesn't have to be other people getting dirty. It doesn't have to be my wife, who, as you know, doesn't have the stomach for it. So I did my job in Arbeztan. I stayed close to Azor, influenced him to be friendly toward America. That's how this country stays on top. And if staying on top means I have to live with an uneasy conscience, that's my burden, and it's my responsibility to put up with it and keep going."

"And if you had to do it again? Another time, somewhere else in the world?" 

"Well, I won't lie; I hope I never have to. But I've done a lot of things, through the years - for the job, for the country - things that I wouldn't do for any other fucking reason in the world. I've proved to myself that I can do those things. I'm not soulless enough to be fine with it, but I've seen the worst. And I still believe in what we do. I want to keep doing it." 

"All right. I'll take that."

"Good. Because it's the truth. What's next?" 

Cabrese smiled. "You'll have seen this one coming: How's your wife?"

That produced a wry grimace. "Yeah, I gotta tell Theresa how goddamn popular she still is. Everyone's always asking me about her."

"You resent that?"

"That one's easy. Yeah, I do resent it. I resent having my loyalty doubted because of what my wife - who, God knows, I cannot control - chose to do in a moment of ideological passion four years ago." Callahan's guard was down and he was showing real anger. That was other reason for debriefings, one no employee would admit to: they were rough but they were therapy. They let a man say what he wasn't allowed to say anywhere else.

"Remind me why you got moved out of Ambassadorial."

Callahan rolled his eyes, but he told the bare facts well, without shirking responsibility. "And I told her that I'd known about it all along - the paramilitary groups, the fact that Azor was funding them and was involved up to his neck, but that my orders were to not interfere. Theresa was-- She was upset. And she reacted strongly. She quit the company the next day. And I was blamed for breaching security protocol, violating the need-to-know principle. Poor judgment, you people said." He shrugged angrily. "And then, of course, I remained suspect because of my family ties. Because I was now married to a red-tagged woman." He leaned forward. "It was you people who tagged her. Then you blamed me for not, what? kicking her out?"

"So you still don't you think the concerns of your supervisors were valid?"

"Understandable? Yes. Valid? No." Callahan's tone was becoming confrontational. "It's been four fucking years I've been stuck in M.A. I did _nothing_ wrong; she had clearance; she was my wife for God's sake; I had _no_ reason to believe--"

"You can stop now. Stand up, please."

Callahan stopped hard. like a dog yanked back by its chain. His internal struggles showed in his expression. Then he got to his feet. 

Cabrese was within his rights to command a subject to stand. Some debriefers went farther. Nunez liked to have troublesome ones raise their arms overhead, a position of surrender and vulnerability. Since subjects were evaluated on cooperativeness, they could not refuse. It was not a technique any debriefer used lightly: it risked leaving the subject feeling humiliated and resentful, which was counterproductive and undermined employee loyalty. But he had a good feel for Callahan. The man would respond well to a sharp, brief reminder of his place and obligations. 

He watched Callahan's face twitch a couple times and then smooth itself into compliance. 

"Take your seat." 

He gave Callahan a moment and then returned to his line of questioning. "Ideological passion, you said. Is that how you see it? She quit in a moment of passion?"

"Something like that, yes."

"From her file, I wouldn't have guessed she was a woman who let emotions guide her. She sounds more like a planner. Meticulous."

Callahan relaxed a little. "You don't know her. She'll fool you. A woman of depth and mystery." It was a surprise that he spoke so warmly of the woman who'd wrecked his career. "She's a planner, but she's a lot of things. She's more than that."

"How about forgiving - is she that?"

"No. Hell, no. Well -- maybe that's unfair. Forgiving, maybe. But forgetting? That'll be the far side of never."

"But if she hasn't forgiven you and the US government for decisions made during the Arbeztan war, she won't be happy if you end up going back into the ambassadorial sector. Does that worry you?"

"We talked about it. She says it's up to me." But he looked down as he said it. 

"You find yourself wondering if she means it."

"Trying not to think about it until I have to."

"If you go back, are you going to be able to keep secrets from her, this time around?"

"Don't you think I've kept a million secrets from her? Seventeen years since I was recruited."

"You ever think about divorcing her?"

Callahan flinched. The question had hit a nerve. "What is that, now?" he snapped. "Your professional recommendation? Is the company meddling with my family now?" 

"Defensive," said Cabrese. "Take a moment. Relax. Don't fight."

Callahan blinked and sat back. "Right," he muttered.

Debriefers loved veterans. Someone like Callahan had been around the block enough to develop his own unique problems, rather than the prosaic ones that every first-year trainee had to be guided through: fear of failure, of discovery, and so on. Better yet, Callahan knew what a CDD required. He was long past the futile show of resistance that young employees clung to. Callahan would probably be done in under an hour - whereas a first-year trainee took an average of twelve hours for the same process. A debriefer had to hang in for as long as long as it took, patiently rejecting every unacceptable response - lies, evasions, argument, anger, humor, stubborn silence, attempted elopement, tears, threats, pleas, violence. First-years were told this plainly and repeatedly. "A CDD is a maze and you're the rat. The only way out is the path of candor. Everything else gets you no closer to the exit. Remember that the whole time we stay here, the debriefer is getting paid. And you're just continuing to prove you're too chickenshit to tell the truth." 

Callahan had shed another layer. He looked vulnerable and intent and ready, a diver on the ten-meter platform. Cabrese would have to be careful not to scar him. "All right," Callahan said. "I'm sorry."

"I asked whether you thought about divorcing Theresa. You got angry. Let's pick up from there. I wasn't making a recommendation; I was asking a fair question. You two, you met in foreign service training. You were in roughly the same line of work; you shared certain beliefs. An average man would now be thinking, it's her fault she's wrecked all that. Got herself red-tagged, got you in some bad trouble, and now she's a millstone to your career. You still believe in the company, in honor and country; but she doesn't. You've grown apart. She's not what you bargained for. You must be asking yourself, why not cut her loose?"

"Oh, God," Callahan muttered. "True, true, and undecided." He closed his eyes. "But, I don't think that's the company's business."

"I'll leave the details off the record," said Callahan quietly. "You still have to answer."

"All right. You want to know." He swallowed, making a choking sound. "I thought about it. Sure. A lot, four years ago. Sometimes I still do." He clenched his fists, then opened them hard so the tendons stood out on the backs of his hands. "Leaving her would improve my chances with the company about a thousand percent; I know that. But I don't want to do it."

Vanity and self-delusion were the cause of most struggles in this room. But the struggle of an honorable man at odds with himself - that was rarer and deserved respect. "Okay. But you're going to have to explain that."

Callahan raised himself up. "How about this?" he said wearily. "I love my wife. I love my country. I loved the ambassadorial sector. And I'm just enough of a selfish, ambitious bastard to keep believing I can have all three of those things again. Like I used to."

"Hmm."

"Did I pass?" Callahan demanded. "I better pass on that one, because, I'm telling you, I got nothing else. I can't explain it any better. I want to let her go. Get back on the job. But I can't." Cabrese waited. "Look, she and I both know I can't talk shop with her. Ever, for the rest of my life. For seventeen years we were in the same line of work and it breaks my fucking heart that that's over, but it is and we both get it. I'm not a goddamn traitor and neither is she, and neither of us tells secrets. You people can come bug our bedroom if you want - assuming you aren't doing that already. I warn you, though: we've been married almost twenty years; you're not gonna hear anything too entertaining."

It was enough; it was an honest outburst, and Cabrese laughed. The man deserved a reward. "Yes. You pass. And the company has couples therapists if you want a referral. Sex therapists, too."

Callahan settled back onto the sofa, weak but grinning with relief. "Fuck you. Next question." 

"Now we come to the interrogation you've been assigned to. You've never helped on one, never seen one. True?"

"Ah. That would be, actually - false." Cabrese hid his surprise as he waited. "In Sokhrina. Mirtallev showed off his dungeon to me one time." He shifted uncomfortably. "He sprung it on me. Told me we were going to an underground boxing match. So, we're downtown, he takes me into a big solid-looking building, it's unmarked; we go through three security checks, then boom. Turns out he's taken me to the GC. _Gosurnyesk chudrak_ \- means federal internment facility." Callahan chewed the inside of cheek. "He kept me there for a couple hours. Had me watch a prisoner getting worked over. A Karth, actually."

"You don't look like you enjoyed it."

"Cant say I did."

"Tell me what you saw there."

"Bunch of goons beating a man up." He shrugged, or tried to. "Man was doing a little yelling. It was nothing. Not too bad."

Cabrese waited. Callahan suffered. Finally Cabrese said, "You know, we can sit here a long time. I've done twenty-three hours at a stretch."

Callahan looked at him. "Yeah, well. It was pretty bad." He laughed shakily. "Pretty fucking bad."

"You should have told someone that. Years ago."

"Can't tell you people all my secrets, doctor. Gotta remind you that you aren't as all-seeing as you'd like to believe."

He was right, of course. Every subject got some things past a debriefer's radar. Lies of omission were the most common and hardest to detect. Some testers favored wiring their subjects; Cabrese hated it. His statistics were as good as anyone's, and that's all the company cared about. Poor Johanssen, on the other hand, had just lost a subject to suicide - worse, she had left a note explaining that for over a year she'd been blackmailed by one of her sources. Waking up to news like that was every debriefer's nightmare. It was Johanssen's second major screw-up in six years. The company had him on probation. 

"So. We've established that you're not a big fan of torture, which is good, because your government doesn't like to keep psychopaths on the payroll. You have any nightmares afterward?"

"For a while I did. Not anymore."

"How do you see your role in the interrogation of the Karth boy?"

"Is he a boy?"

"About seventeen."

"Oh, for Chrissake. Just... Just tell me that we're not gonna rip his toenails out with pliers, because, you know, I really didn't enjoy that part. Or the electrodes. Testicles. Eyeballs. I could have done without pretty much all of it, come to think of it."

"Are you afraid of being tortured, Jamie?"

That produced a flat stare; a brick wall came down hard. "I passed my coursework during training. I passed all my clinicals. I've passed the refreshers twice a year like everybody else."

"Not what I asked."

Callahan closed his eyes, opened them. "What were we talking about?"

"You, in an underground cell, bunch of men holding you down; pair of pliers and they're starting on your fingernails. Got a knife, and they're pointing at your eyes, closing in, just a centimeter away now. You're begging them to kill you but you know they won't, ever.."

"Oh, yeah, that. Okay. So. Torture." He was jiggling his foot and showing psychomotor signs, all of them, and he knew it, knew Cabrese saw it, knew it was a lost cause. He threw his hands up. "Yeah, you got me. I'm afraid of it. After what I saw. Call me crazy." He shook his head. "Ah, fuck. I just blew it. Didn't I."

"You didn't blow anything. If you do get back in the game, though, I'll have to recommend you for remediation. Do you know what that entails?"

"I can guess."

"Desensitization is a proven method. I've seen it work hundreds of times. Even on long-term victims."

"Really, and does it work on eyeballs? I guess it must. Because, if the company puts my eyes out, I'll have nothing left to worry about." He rubbed his chin. " Jesus."

"You could stay in M.A., you know. It's a good job. Steady. And someone has to do it."

"Oh, hey. Now you're talking true torture." After a moment he said, "I thought we were talking about Mirtallev's assassin. Not about my humiliating psychological weaknesses."

Cabrese moved on. Any idiot could pound a man's weak points until he turned into a quivering, and useless, heap of jelly. The interrogator's art lay in setting the stage, creating the right frame of mind to make the subject cooperative, and then getting the information that mattered. He had been trying to get this point across to his current trainee for months without success. "I can promise you I won't be torturing the boy. Sleep deprivation and environmental manipulation, yes. But mostly what you'll see is me running a game on him, which as we both know is what I do best. Do you think you'll be up for it?" Callahan nodded. He was looking steadier. "The Block isn't pleasant - not for the prisoners and not for the interviewers. If we liked it, we'd be monsters. And now, changing the subject: I appreciate your help with the film of the assassination. Your inside knowledge is going to be a great asset to me."

"You're flattering me," said Callahan. "Kissing my assets. You just want to get my mind off this subject of eyeballs."

"Yes. Is it working?"

"It's goddamn bush league, is what it is, doc. You're insulting my intelligence." 

Cabrese smiled. "Getting close to the end. You tired yet?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Next topic: your old friend Azor Mirtallev. Dead. What do you think of that?"

"What do I think of it." He blew out his breath. "I think if anyone deserved it, he did. And, uh, I think the world is a smaller, way more boring place with him not in it."

"Go on."

Callahan swallowed. "I didn't believe it when I heard. I mean, you never believe those things on the first day; it has to sink in, you know?" Cabrese nodded. "But even later. Mirtallev, he was... larger than life. So yeah. It hit me pretty hard. Guy was a bastard but, you know. He was my friend."

"So. Tell me about him."

Callahan stared into the distance, memories of a fallen Camelot shining before him. "You don't really want to know. Do you?" 

"I want to know about you. So yes, I want to know about him."

Callahan groaned. "Oh Christ. Where to start. Azor Mirtallev." He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Azor Mirtallev. He was a fucking lunatic. Loyal, though. Shirt off his back. Could tell a joke better than anyone, keep you laughing all night. Center of attention. Loved it when the joke was on him. He made everything funny. Listen: this one time we were out at a casino, one of the ones his people owned. And he went off to talk up a girl. Came back staggering, doubled over, hands cupped over his balls. I jumped up. "Azor! Azor, what the fuck?" "She shot me, brother! Took them both off, one shot. Chogav! Jamie! Karel!" Then he crumpled up at my feet, rolled onto his back. Wearing a suit, naturally, that cost half a million rachki. Everyone in the place was staring, shouting - _Call someone! Mirtallev's been shot!_ Chogav roaring, "Call emergency! Lock the doors! Lock the doors and I find this girl!" Callahan laughed at the memory and shook his head. But the hilarity went out of him quickly. "Not so funny now."

Cabrese was silent. After a while Callahan went on. "He was like a king. Made everybody feel like a king. Made me feel alive. Does that sound weird?" He looked to Cabrese, who shook his head. "Azor was a guy who made every girl feel like a supermodel, even the ugly ones. The men in the cigarette kiosks loved him; everyone loved him. Except, of course, for the millions who wanted him dead." He looked at Cabrese. "I've been everywhere, you know? I've met a lot of charming monsters; most monsters have a charming face they trot out for special company. But he was different. He was a good man who got into a bad line of work. He needed a fast life, I think, couldn't stay away from it. So he went where the excitement was." 

"Why did he take you to his dungeon, that time? Was it a threat against you? A test?"

"No. God no. He wasn't like that. He knew it was a terrible place. But-- it meant something to him." He looked up. "He asked me afterward, what I thought of it. He didn't have to ask; he could see I was about to vomit. I told him he shouldn't have brought me. And he-- he apologized. He meant it, too. He was sorry he'd made me watch, but he hadn't done it by accident, either. I mean, he knew from the start that I would hate it. He said, 'But I had to show you. So that now you can go home and think. And tomorrow you will please just tell me: are we still friends?'" Callahan looked around, then shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. He was crazy. He was terrible. I miss him."

"And when the next day came, what did you tell him? Still friends?"

Callahan nodded slowly. "Better than ever." He twisted away suddenly and put his hands up to shield his eyes. "Ah, fuck." Cabrese waited. Callahan stayed like that for a minute, face hidden in shadow. Then he swung back to face forward. "We gotta be just about done, doctor."

Cabrese shook his head. "Last topic. What do you think it will be?"

He waited. Callahan waited. Cabrese could see the moment when Callahan gave up his attempt to stare him down and started trying to distract himself from the rising tension. Some people pictured a place they knew and worked at recreating it in their minds, every twig on every tree. Some people did math in their heads. Cabrese gave him ten minutes, which was enough to bring most subjects almost to the breaking point and looking for a way out of the hole they'd dug themselves into. Then he said, "This is where I remind you that your superiors will soon be reading my impression of, among other things, your willingness to cooperate with challenging parts of the assessment."

"I'm not trying to be uncooperative. I just don't want to play guessing games. You want to start, you can start." 

"Okay. Four years ago. You got in over your head with Angel Morjo. Agree or disagree?"

"Neither. I have a question before we go any further down this road."

"Shoot."

"Four years ago, you and I met. I told you some things. But those things remain confidential. I asked for that meeting; it was an EDD. The rule is, problems volunteered by an employee during an EDD stay off the record forever. I came forward; I did the right thing. But today, this is a CDD - this is for my file. Angel stays off limits, though. No matter what I say, don't say, or refuse to say about her - you can't put any of that in my assessment. You can't. Those are the rules."

"You want a review of the confidentiality protocols governing employee-driven debriefings."

Callahan nodded. "Damn straight."

"All right." He leaned forward. "You're pretty much right. The company, not being stupid, knows that employees are human. You're also special. Each of you has skills and experience that makes you irreplaceable. So when you have problems, they want you to ask for help and not go off the rails. Hence, the employee-driven debriefing. When you ask for an EDD, you're awarded permanent confidentiality on whatever issue you raise. Other debriefers can see EDD records, but in your official file, the bosses only see the date of the request, the date of the EDD, and the name of the debriefer. And as you correctly stated, confidentiality applies even if the topic is raised at a later date - say, during a company-driven debriefing like this one." He paused. "I have to add, and this should go without saying, that the rule of confidentiality is waived when the debriefer has gray-level concerns - that is, when we're talking about infractions that require suspension or termination. So far so good. You are familiar with these rules."

"Yes. Confidentiality forever. That's what I'm saying."

"But now, listen carefully, because here's the other side of the coin: When I send my report to the boss later today, it will include a general assessment of your entire performance, start to finish, no topics excluded. So I might find myself reporting, for example, that I found you secretive on some matters. Or uncooperative. Or that, concerning an unnamed topic, you proved emotionally fragile. Unable to withstand the rigors of strenuous questioning."

He waited for this to sink in. Callahan stared. He started to say something, then he stopped, then he went back mentally over Cabrese's words. "Wait," he said. "Run that by me again." Cabrese did.

Callahan worked it through. It was possible to see him going over the words, looking for a loophole. Finally he shook his head in a kind of blind amazement. "So," he said. "Let me understand. Because I asked for an EDD four years ago, I put myself on the hook. I told you about Angel. So now you're going to question me about her. And I have to satisfy you that I'm candid and stable and all that other crap. Or you'll hang me out on my CDD. You'll fucking hang me out."

Cabrese felt sympathy. "Yes. That is how it works."

"But I came to you! I didn't have to tell you anything. If I had known--" He made an inarticulate sound. "You people. I can't believe you."

"Try to see it from--"

"No! I believed what I'd been told. 'The company has our best interests at heart, ask for an EDD, you'll get confidentiality;' what a fucking load of-- And you. When I walked in four years ago, you knew I was hanging myself and you didn't warn me. I walked right into it. I trusted you."

"It's not a trap. It's a protection, for the company as well as you. This way, when an employee has a problem, his debriefer can ensure his ongoing well-being. As well as making sure it never crosses into gray-level behavior."

Callahan laughed. "You are a complete bastard."

"I have a job to do, Jamie. Like you."

"What about Johanssen?" Callahan looked utterly stricken. "In four years, he's never mentioned her to me."

"He saw it as a personal matter, unlikely to affect your work in M.A. Now you've brought her to Theta and involved her in company business. Things are different."

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus." He pounded his fists into his thighs. "I thought I was _safe,_ you know. Because of the EDD rules."

"I understand. But it is what it is. And here is what I see. You and I are, ultimately, on the same side. I would like to help you and I'd like to see you succeed at your work and remain an asset to the company. Four years ago, you were in very deep. You asked for an EDD and we talked. I helped you look at the problem from different angles. We talked about the choices before you. I think in the end I helped you. But I look at you now, and I think you're in trouble again. So. Let's get started." 

Callahan struggled for a long time. Finally his shoulders slumped. "Okay." He still looked bewildered. "Do it. Just, do it. Like I have a choice? I want to keep my job. I'll answer."

"We are starting where we left off. Four years ago, you were in over your head with a young woman. Angel Morjo. Agree or disagree?"

"Oh well, 'over my head.' I don't know if I'd go that far."

"You know, of course, that there's a recording of the EDD. For my use only. I pulled it out this morning, put it in the player. Maybe we can turn it on. Revisit your feelings at the time. Get a clearer memory." He nodded toward the sound equipment in the corner. Callahan recoiled. There was a pause.

"No," he mumbled at last. "Not necessary."

"Okay then. I'll go on. Four years ago; over your head. You were just back from Arbeztan. You had trouble at Marchev, trouble with your job, trouble with your wife. She turned your life upside down. You lost your clearance and were transferred into MA. Ms. Morjo was at the Roanoke V.A., though she wasn't a veteran - you had pulled strings to get her a bed. You were driving there every evening after work, and lying to Theresa about it. You thought about her all the time; you were obsessed with helping her, protecting her." He gestured. "Your turn. What happened next?"

"She cut her fucking wrists." 

"Go on." 

"The hospital called me. I was the only emergency contact. They told me about it. They were going to transfer her out to that other place. The psych hospital." 

"Yes. St. Luke's of Galilee."

"Yes."

"And that's when, to your everlasting credit, you asked for an EDD. Do you have anything you want to add, before we go on?"

Callahan, beaten, shook his head. 

"She was taken to St. Luke's as an involuntary hold. You came to me the day they transferred her. You were very off balance. My advice at that time was that you should stop seeing her immediately. Did you listen to me?"

Callahan shifted. "I listened to you, sure I did. About a lot of things."

Cabrese gave him a sharp look. "Now is not a good time to play word games."

"All right. One time, I went back," Callahan said. "Just once. To say goodbye. To tell her to hang on, that things would get better for her."

"And. How did that go?"

"Oh. Really good. Amazing." He laughed. "Worse than you would believe."

Cabrese waited. Finally Callahan launched into it. "Wednesday evening. Visiting day. I'd waited five days for it. Wore my UN uniform. Practiced what I'd say. Practiced never seeing her again."

"Why the uniform?"

"Oh, don't you know this? A uniform, any uniform, makes it easier to cut through bureaucracy. I always wore it when I visited her at the VA, which has the kind of bureaucracy that can drive a sane man to murder. And of course I'd been wearing it when we met in Marchev - for those whole six weeks we were there together, waiting for her paperwork to come through. You know. Uniform. They issued me one when they assigned me to the peacekeeping force. Because, ah! very important to have a uniform for propaganda photos: _Heroic multinational UN peacekeeping force tours war-torn country. Feeds orphans, kisses babies, frees POW's. American ambassador leads the way."_

Callahan was beginning to go off the rails, twitching and rambling. Cabrese said calmly, "Yes. I remember that part. Go on."

"Ah, yeah. Okay. So I find the place. St. Lukes. Her wing is locked; I had to buzz for entrance. Clerk peeks out, junior nurse, whatever. Sees me in my uniform. Looking ready to pose for more photographs! Buzzes me in. She's young, she's fluttery. She doesn't check with anyone - doctor, nurse, whoever she might have been supposed to check with. She takes me down the hall. Angel's door is half open. And, you know what, can we just fucking stop there? Please?"

"I'll wait," said Cabrese. After a moment, Callahan nodded. 

"We push open the door, and there she is. On the bed. Except, you know, she's-- She was thrashing, screaming, and there were a bunch of people around her. They were strapping her down. They had one wrist and one ankle done already, in sort of handcuffs. Leather handcuffs. And she was fighting and they were grabbing at her. Three against one, and she weighed, what, ninety pounds at that point."

"Four-point restraints."

"This is a thing?" Callahan turned on him. "This is a legitimate thing? I mean, for people who aren't on the gurney for their lethal injection?"

"For people who are a danger to themselves."

"I don't know about that." He shook his head. "I don't know anything, but I know what it looked like. And then-- and then she turned her head and saw me standing there. Staring at her while they--" He broke off. Added in a low voice, "Like she didn't get held down enough at Marchev."

There was a long wait. Finally Cabrese said, "Jamie. I want to understand."

"Okay. Understand this. She saw me. She knew me - as messed up as she was, she knew me. And I knew she knew, because her eyes flew wide open and she froze. She stopped fighting, stopped cursing. She just looked at me. She looked at me like--" His face wrenched itself into a different shape. "I'd won her over in Marchev; it was a week before she even said a word to me. I thought I could help her. I'd gotten her to trust me. But the way she looked at me that day, with those bastards putting their hands on her." He shook his head helplessly. "Like I'd set her up. Like I'd taken the one last thing she could believe in."

Cabrese said in his gentlest voice, "And then?"

"Oh. I ran, believe me. Hell outa Dodge."

"That was the right thing to do."

Callahan looked up. "You warned me. You warned me that I had to stop before she got hurt. You were right."

"I'm not glad about that. What happened then?"

"Aw, you know." There was a big intake of breath, a sigh. Callahan was through the worst of it. "Never saw her again. Never went back. Thought long and hard about what you'd said; breaking it off clean. The hospital called me before she was released. You remember I had listed myself as her contact person, since she had no family. They told me her plan was to move back to Boston where she was raised, look for work. Said that I had the right to contest it if I had qualms. I didn't want her to go so far from me. But I didn't contest it." His eyes roved. "She left. And me, I was very well-behaved, I didn't interfere, I never saw her again. But. There is a but."

"Mmm."

"Yeah. I asked someone I know in Boston to keep an eye out. To run her name. He told me when she signed the lease on her apartment. I asked him to check out the neighborhood; make sure it would be safe. You know. For a woman alone. He told me when she took that crap job. Ten bucks an hour; she barely had to file a return. I kept hoping it was just a stop along the road for her, and she'd move on and get herself something better. But she never did."

"How often did you check up on her?"

"Every six months. Early January, early July. Had a schedule."

"But you never went to Boston or contacted her again."

Callahan hesitated. It was a tiny trip-up, the disconnect of a mind and mouth going in two directions. If he hadn't been driven against the ropes for the past half hour, punch drunk, he would have lied without any difficulty. But he didn't quite pull it off, and Cabrese saw it. And Callahan knew he'd been seen.

They watched each other for a moment. 

Cabrese said quietly, "Very thin ice, Mr. Callahan."

Callahan's head went down and he groaned. Some minutes passed.

"Full disclosure," Callahan said at last.

"Please."

"I've, yes. I have been writing to her. Every six months. My friend confirmed her home address and I'd send a note. Nothing much. 'Thinking of you. Call if you need anything.' She never answered." He looked up, miserably. "She's changed, you know. I wouldn't have recognized her when I saw her again in DC. She's a real church secretary now. Looks like one. Walks and talks like one."

"That's how she knew your phone number." Callahan nodded. 

"And so," Cabrese said, "five nights ago she contacted you. She said she was in trouble. And you went to her. And then - this is the fun part - you arranged a job for her here at Theta base. Where you teach. An hour from your home. You went to Alec Quentin. You talked him into sponsoring her - knowing Quentin knows nothing about your history with her, because it's hidden under EDD confidentiality rules."

He watched Callahan muster his defense. The man was exhausted, his head down, his words mumbled. "Hey. She knows Jaro, and she knows the mountains, and she speaks Karthic. She's a valuable asset and she deserves the job. As for getting it past Quentin - yeah, pretty slick of me. All that company training in subterfuge finally paid off."

"You are in this thing very deep, Jamie."

"Hey!" Callahan raised his head. "Four years, and I never laid eyes on her. Never went near her. Every six months I sent a note. So give me a little credit for my iron self-control." 

"Listen to me. We need information from her. I'm going to count on you to help with that. But you can't get involved with her. You have to be careful."

"I know. All right?" Cabrese watched him set his face back down in his hands "I know this."

"I don't think you do. Four years she's been a church secretary. You want to know why? I know already. She's been waiting for you. Waiting in a tower for her prince to come."

"What? No, it's not that. She never even answered me."

"Same prince who saved her from Marchev. Not something a girl forgets."

"It's not that."

"It's exactly that. You know what else? I watched her security intake through the glass. Want to know what I think?"

"I know you'll tell me."

"I'm paid to spot liars and I'm very good at my job. You, Jamie, you're a professional liar and you can slip one past me from time to time. That girl? She's an amateur."

"She's not lying. She was with the Karth. I saw her talking to Kozlan and the rest of them. She knows them. She was in the mountains."

"That much is true. It's just every other word out of her mouth, that I find questionable."

"Like what?

"What she was doing with them in the mountains, all those months. Why a twenty-three year old girl - an ethnic Karth - would go for spring break in Arbeztan on the eve of a war. What really happened to that roommate." Callahan's head snapped up. "Yes. It's a pack of lies, all of it. Wake up."

"If you had seen her in Marchev, ribs sticking out, sores all over her body--" 

"Oh, she was tortured; I believe that. That doesn't mean she was innocent."

Callahan laughed. "This is fucking bullshit."

"I listened to the tape of your EDD this morning. I'm going to remind you of something you said back then. Maybe you'll remember this. _'I just wanted to save her. One last thing I could save from that hellhole, from Marchev. One fucking thing that I could still do.'_ You said that. Do you remember that? Does it sound like you?"

Pain showed in Callahan's eyes. He looked down at his hands. Finally he said softly, "Yeah. That sounds about right."

"You saved her at Marchev. Now you've done it again. But there's something else you're not seeing." He sighed. "Ask yourself. How likely is it that a guard from Marchev recognized her in Boston?"

"It's possible. There are plenty of Arbezi immigrants in her area."

"Maybe. Here's a more likely scenario: Unstable girl with untreated PTSD. Living in a crap apartment, going everyday to a crap job, checking her mailbox, waiting for a letter every six months, she's got your phone number memorized and she's waiting for you to save her. Year after year. Getting crazier by the minute. Starts imagining things. A drunk leans too close. Some immigrant speaks Arbezi to her on the street at night. Or maybe it's more than that. Maybe she hallucinates. Maybe she can't tell her nightmares from reality anymore. She gets confused. And maybe, just maybe, she gets sick of waiting for you and decides to bait a trap. Invent a little story. Play the damsel in distress once again."

"No. I saw her in Washington after that guy spooked her. Scared out of her mind."

"Shaking, was she? Jumpy?"

"That's right."

"She's still shaking. She'll be shaking worse tomorrow." Callahan gave him a puzzled look. "It's not fear. It's alcohol withdrawal. Think your clinical acumen is as good as mine? It's not. Your girl's a drinker - walking the same road that killed her father. His death certificate was in the files you gave me."

"I don't believe this." Callahan was on the ropes, shaking his head. "The stalker was real. She's in danger. She can't go back to Boston. And she wouldn't make that up; she's not like that."

"You don't know the first fucking thing about her. Did you tell me the truth about what was in those letters you sent her?"

"Yes."

"Hope so. Because I guarantee they're in her quarters, every one of them, in a keepsake box, tied with a red silk--"

"No. No way, she's not--"

"--which means, I'm about to see them for myself."

Callahan sat back hard. He looked stunned. "You're going to search her room."

Cabrese nodded. "Want to change your story now?"

It took Callahan a long time to answer. Finally he said, "I should have known, right? She's been here five minutes and already the company is doing its thing. Doing what it does best. I should have known what I was bringing her into." He straightened. "Just, please. Tell your men to do the job right. Fix her place up after they toss it. So she never has to know."

"All right."

"We're done?" Cabrese nodded, and Callahan got up and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Are you going to pass me?"

"Jamie."

"Right. Fuck you, too."

Cabrese watched him go. He wished, oddly, that he could have given the man some comfort. Callahan had done remarkably well, considering everything that was stacking up around him.


	15. theta day 3.  angel

Angel swallowed the last of the pills Cabrese had given her and flipped hte empty bottle into the trash. It was her third morning at Theta and she felt better than she had in days. Maybe in months. Her headache had lifted and the spots before her eyes were gone. Her hands did not shake when she pinned her new blue ID to the pocket of her shirt. 

"It's a resident guest pass," said the guard in khakis who had delivered it to her door the day before. "Some of the buildings are off-limits to you because they require a higher clearance than you've got. By eleven p.m. you're supposed to be off the grounds, so if you have to be out later than that, call the security office for an escort. You're not permitted to carry a weapon. If you have any questions, refer to the handbook of protocol you got when you came, or contact security headquarters: Wilson building, second floor. Here's a map that shows all the areas of common interest. Most of them are clustered on the north end near the front gate; that's where you'll find the dining hall, the supply store, and the library. At the store, you'll find some basic food and office supplies. Most of the administrative offices, like the credit union and the parking division, are based in Central. Off-limits buildings are marked in red." 

Now she raked her fingers through her hair. She studied the map for a minute. The language hall was across the upper quad and down a set of curving steps. It was the largest in a group of a buildings marked collectively on the map as South Theta. 

She found the building without much trouble. Dozens of people were streaming up the outer stairs into the language hall. Most looked to be in their twenties. Some were in military uniform and most were in nice clothes: khakis, corduroys, shirts that buttoned. Inside the main door, she paused and looked around. Uncertainty gnawed at her insides. Then she heard her name. 

"Angel Morjo?" A tall woman with a lined face and blond upswept hair advanced on her, peering at her blue badge. "I'm Catherine Lund." She extended her hand, which was veined and elegant, the knuckles knobbed and the nails French-manicured. As they shook, Angel was aware of the shabbiness of her own fingernails. She had known women like Catherine Lund - they were the mothers who employed TeachPrague staffers to get their kids fluent in English. They were always coiffed and well-dressed and never without makeup and heels; they took good care of themselves and looked like money. They existed in parts of Boston, too, just not the part Angel knew. "Ready? I've been looking forward to this. You're my first taste of Karthic." 

She swept Angel down the main hallway. The walls were steely-white, the floor tiled, the layout as sleek as a futuristic movie set. Classroom after classroom peeled off the hallway. As doors opened and students poured in and out, Angel caught glimpses of desks with rows of identical computers. Catherine pointed toward a double-door made of thick frosted glass. "That's the library. Behind it is the recording studio, where we'll end up spending a lot of time. I want us to make recordings of Karthic. I'm thinking we'll make graded lessons as a self-study program for future students. We'll progress from simple words to grammatical building blocks. Then, on to advanced conversation. We'll prepare an online dictionary too. If I can work it out with our tech experts, we'll design an online translator. Also, you're going to teach me to speak Karthic like a native." 

Angel looked at her dubiously. "I'm only here six months." 

Catherine Lund's smile dazzled. "I know." 

Catherine Lund spoke twenty-three languages. She specialized in "orphans," she explained - isolated languages spoken by small tribes in remote places. "Unfortunately, they're all dying off. People who were isolated by geography for thousands of years aren't isolated any more. They're plugged in to the throbbing pulse of technology. Transportation has linked every far-off mystic land to New York City and Tokyo and Rio. Everyone everywhere wants to speak English, and the youth all want to leave home for the big city. It's sad. Like the end of the dinosaurs. I've got this idea of opening a museum someday - a language and anthropology museum full of sound and culture, where languages spoken for millennia can be preserved and heard by future generations. Before English stomps everything to death." 

The Karth she had lived with didn't want to leave the mountains; they just wanted the land to themselves. She wondered about the youngsters. They were loyal and pledged to fight the Arbezi to the last drop of their blood. But did they secretly wish they could leave, like her family had? Probably every kid did, during peacetime. During the war, though, no one would have admitted it out loud. They were united by fiery hatred of the lowland enemy. 

Aloud she said, "You can really learn a language in six months? Just by listening to me talk?" 

Catherine gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I have the brain for it. It's my one gift. To be honest, I would rather have been a piano prodigy, but it's not like anyone gave me the choice. I'm good with words. I see them like colored chips. Most of them have a sort of taste in my mouth. It's a useful talent. Freakish, but useful. Not bad for a girl from the wrong side of Trenton." 

She opened a door. "Welcome to the instructors' lounge. You sit and I'll get coffee." 

Angel sank into a plush armchair and looked around. Bookshelves ran the length of three walls. There must have been hundreds of volumes. They were sorted by language. She recognized Czech by its diacriticals. Above it was a block of probable Polish, and below it were cyrillic titles. The opposite wall had titles in Asian alphabets. It was like the undergrad library at Boston College. Sophisticated and quiet. Not what she was used to. 

"Here's what I need," Catherine said over her shoulder. "Just start talking. Say anything; it doesn't matter. Describe the room. I need to hear the rhythm of Karthic so I can get a feel for it. An overview for the patterns. Okay? Go." 

Awkwardly, Angel cleared her throat. "The room," she said in Karthic. "It is big. This chair is--" She could not remember the word for purple. Possibly she had never know it; there was nothing purple in the mountains, except maybe wildflowers on the lower slopes along the dirt roads, and she had never talked about flowers even if she had noticed them. "Blue," she said. Catherine put a mug down in front of her and took the chair opposite, watching her intently. 

"Keep going. I'm listening. Say anything." 

She cast about. She could describe the walls (brown) and the rug (yellow). Catherine was looking at her expectantly. Her tongue was rusty. She did not know the word for this kind of rug, which was unlike the woolen throws used in the mountains for everything from rugs to bedding to indoor coats in winter. 

_Say anything._

She fell back on familiar phrases, the introduction she had offered up a thousand times in the mountains. "My mother and father were born in Damrot, on the sunrise side across the peaks. They left for America and that's where I was born. I grew up outside the mountains, but the Kar-Paval is now my home." 

The other woman listened intently, nodding. 

Angel had a rising desire to speak what was in her heart. She plunged on. "Listen. From the day I came into the mountains, I told them what I wanted: to fight the Arbezi. They laughed. Now I look back and I don't blame them. They took me to their village, and to a cottage where the wife of Malitt lived. After two days, Malitt and Kroni came in the dark and woke me. They put a contraption in my hands. They told me it had to be taken down the slope, out onto the road outside one of the lower settlements, and buried an inch below the dirt. I was happy to be asked to help. I was scared, too. They led me down the slope in the dark. They hid above on the clifftop while I dug in the road, terrified that a truck would come and catch me at it. I had figured out that it was a bomb. When I was done, I climbed back up the cliff. Malitt slapped me on the back and called me "bomb-girl." I thought I was one of them now. The next night it was the same: they woke me with another object to bury in a different road and again I did it for them. But this time, on the walk back Malitt put his hand under my clothes and tried to pull me down onto the ground. I shouted and fought him and Kroni told him to stop before the Arbezi heard us. But that was when I knew I was only a joke - a stupid foreigner, the bomb-girl, who was being used the way a donkey is used, to do work people don't want to do themselves. 

"The next day, I went outside and stood on the edge of the fire trying to get warm. Some of the men started arguing over me. I didn't know all the words but I understood enough. They were laughing, Jaro was there and he got angry. He pulled me into his own cottage and I thought he meant to attack me, too. But instead he shouted at his wife to get me clothes - his clothes, men's clothes. He said to me that he couldn't make me leave, because I was Karth and had a right, but that as a woman I was trouble. So I would become a man. It's an old custom in the mountains - a girl can call herself a boy and take a boy's name. She wears boy's clothes and she does a man's job. She can inherit land. She can't marry. She's called a vyescha. The custom is dead, and there are no vyescha anymore that I ever heard of. But Jaro led me out of his tent after I was dressed in his clothes and Ylena had shortened them to fit me. He led me to the outdoor tables where the men were eating and told me to sit, and then he ordered the women to serve me. That's how I became a man. And a man isn't a donkey, and he doesn't get attacked by other Karth men. He fights." 

Catherine Lund was looking at her as if transported by something beautiful. "Don't stop now," she breathed. 

"We were the original holders of the land - from the mountains to the plains. The Arbezi stole from us. They took power and they've been killing us for centuries. Twenty years ago, during their last campaign against us, they left landmines along the paths. Karth children still die every year with their legs blown off. There are fields where we can't graze our animals - of the little land we have left, even that little has been made unsafe. There are people missing limbs, missing eyes; generations of bones given to the mountain soil before their time. My father got out, with his family. He was fifteen and my mother was twelve. They were cousins. The other cousins died on the journey. That's why my parents had to marry in America: they were the only children left. The Arbezi are monsters. Marchev was just the latest monstrosity, the only one you people have heard of." 

She fell silent. Catherine, realizing she was finished, began peppering her with questions. How old had she been when she learned Karthic? Did she speak as well as the Karth she had lived with? Did the Karth think she had an accent? 

Angel regretted having spoken. She felt vaguely unclean. But Catherine meant well. She seemed to love hearing the Karthic language. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. 

For the rest of the day, Catherine pointed to objects and she, obediently, named them. Catherine repeated the words back. The linguist's accent was laughable at first, but soon Angel recognized her talents. Her mind snapped up each word greedily. She was able to repeat them back, and remember them. She sometimes needed a second reminder and occasionally a third, but never more than that. Her accent matured from awful to nearly understandable in a matter of hours. 

For lunch, Catherine ordered pizza - there was a nearby town with a place that delivered to the base. In the afternoon they walked outside and Angel named the things they saw around them: _tree, grass, door._ At _umbrella_ , she shook her head. Catherine pointed at a uniformed man standing guard at the top of stairs to the upper quad. Burtju, thought Angel automatically - an insulting word for the Arbezi. Aloud she answered _fjutomrei_ \- young man. "Your consonants are amazing," Catherine said at last. "This is the best thing I've heard since I went to Namibia for Tai Bantu. If it were up to me I would keep you here all night. But it's time to knock off, so I'll see you back at my lab tomorrow at nine. How do I say goodbye to you?" 

_"Kamu lar,"_ said Angel, and executed a bow of the masculine kind; head turned leftward so her eyes didn't meet the ground. 

Alone in her apartment, Angel walked through every room. She had liked Catherine. But now she was alone, with Karthic echoing in her empty skull. Burtju. There was nothing to distract her here - no computer or TV. In her old apartment she had kept the TV on night, letting the noise fill the threatening loneliness of space around her. Here there was nothing to quell the malevolent whispers of the past. Her mind flicked through images she didn't want to remember: corpses, the train, the women's cell at Marchev. 

She dug the nails of both hands into her forearms, using the bright pain to drive off the pictures. Her ceaseless pacing took her in a small circle through the bare kitchen, then the dining room furnished only with a small metal table and two chairs, the bedroom, out to the kitchen again. Maybe the phone would ring and it would be Jamie, asking about her first day. But did she even have a phone? She went room to room, investigating. Phone jacks, yes - plenty of them. But no phone. She hadn't seen Jamie since he'd left her outside the building of the psychologist. What did it mean that he had left her? Was he done with her, now that he'd brought her here and found her a job? 

All right. She wouldn't think about him. She didn't need him. She'd never needed anyone. But a desperate, lost feeling was overtaking her, like a wave coming down on her head and pushing her under. 

Beyond her window, people strode the main footpath in crisp suits and uniforms. She didn't belong and she didn't want to go out - but if she stayed alone she might succumb to the monsters who were beginning to chatter in her mind. She might be found in the morning mumbling and ranting. She touched the blue pass on her pocket, and slung her pocketbook over her shoulder. 

She avoided making eye contact with anyone she passed. She was afraid they were staring at her. She'd made up her mind where to go. In her orientation packet she had received a debit card for use at the store near the base's main gate. It drew from her new account at the credit union, and there was already money in the account - her signing bonus, Jamie had explained with an embarrassed look. 

She found the store. She had expected something like a 7-11, but it was bigger than that. Along with basic groceries and office supplies, there were a few shelves of t-shirts in gray and green, and toiletries, a pharmacy, and a full rack of journals, a counter in the back marked "Deliveries." She looked around for what she truly wanted but she didn't see it. Finally she approached the clerk. 

"Not here," the woman said. "Nearest liquor store is three miles east, up route 82." 

It would be possible to walk three miles, though it would hurt her hip. But the liquor store wouldn't take her debit card. She could get cash from the credit union on the second floor of the building called Central, which was nearby, but it was closed at this hour. Maybe she would have time to go tomorrow. On the other hand, it would be bad to be seen walking down the road to the liquor store and returning on foot through the main gate, cars whizzing by her, while she carried a bottle in a paper bag. She would have to survive this place without wine. She bought a sad substitute: instant coffee, a bag of sugar, a box of Frosted Flakes and a loaf of white bread. She took them home and ate until her senses were dulled. Then she crawled into bed and slept. 

The next day at the language center was not much different from the first. Catherine's accent had already improved. Late in the afternoon, they were working on formal greetings; she was saying, "Ir zhokaj, meya" and Catherine answered, ridiculously "Meya zhoki." This raised a spurt of humor in a part of Angel's brain that had not recognized laughter for quite some time. She was just about to correct the linguist when a young woman in a sharp suit entered.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said. "Angel Morjo? I'm Miranda Lasalle. Dr. Cabrese asked me to get you. He was afraid you might forget your appointment." 

Miranda Lasalle melted back when they reached Cabrese's office. Angel was thinking of all the rooms like this she had seen before, and the customary questions. About _what she'd been through_ , and _how she felt._ The questioners carried clipboards and pens and wore soulful expressions. Angel understood she was a prize to these people - a nut to be cracked, and they were all eager to be the one who cracked her and feasted first on her humiliation. _What you've been through!_ They cocked their heads to the side and looked mournful, trying to conceal their excitement. 

Once, she had made a mistake. A woman of sixty with iron-grey hair in an old-fashioned bun had been sent in. She had been grim and straightforward. Angel had, for some reason, unwound a little, and the woman had nodded and not said anything kind or pitying. At first they had just talked about nothing. But then a cracking-open had happened. There had been no warning. Angel had started to shake, and words had begun to erupt from her in a gush, like a jet of vomit. The woman had listened and put on the sympathetic face, a face Angel hated, but she couldn't stop herself by then - the shaking and crying and jabbering was beyond her control. Finally the woman left, carrying her clipboard full of little notes. And that night, Angel pried a piece of metal from the underside of her bed and laid it against her left wrist and drew a strong, certain line down through the thin meat of her forearm. She watched the red fluid of her vitality ebb away into the mattress, and she felt remote and relieved. A sweet calm came over her. But she didn't reach her destination, because noise and hands and shouts followed. There were people crowding her and grabbing at her while she tried to get free. And when she woke up she was in a new place, St. Luke's, with both her wrists tied down. One arm was wrapped in gauze to the elbow. An unblinking camera eye stared down at her and she was a slave again. 

She'd gotten out of St. Luke's by figuring out the game: play along but frustrate them by giving them nothing. Don't let them feast on your insides. 

This man, Cabrese, he could be played the same way. He had the same smile she'd gotten familiar with at St. Luke's. She hated him and his smile; she thought of punching him in the mouth and making his blood ooze around her knuckles. Out of that mouth came the most boring questions imaginable. Did she like the work in the language center? Was she finding her way around the campus? She gave him monosyllables. He switched gears and tried to get her talking about her past. What did she think of Prague? Boston College? Did she follow any of the Boston teams? She could see him circling the fortress, tapping on the walls. He was out of luck, though. She had no weak spots he could exploit.

Gently, he said, "How long do you want to do this?"

It wasn't the words but the voice, the look. It slid right into her like a stiletto and made her go still. 

"You're tired, I think. It takes so much work, keeping up appearances. Never letting them know." 

Just like that, he had slipped inside past her defenses. She had a weak spot after all - one she hadn't known about until he found it. Against his kindness and understanding eyes, she had no defense. He had laid her open and put his finger on the quivering muscle of her heart. 

He said, "How about you tell me something about you. Something you loved, once. Your favorite book or a favorite movie. Something from a long time ago, when things were better."

She had not known that she wanted to tell him anything, but now she did. She would tell him about the most important thing, Carana; she'd hand him something precious and of course he'd misunderstand it. How could she tell him? "Favorite story," she croaked at last. Her lips had gone numb. He nodded.

She was afraid to go forward, but it was too late to go back. "Two men," she started. She remembered the huge book with gold-embossed letters on the front, that she had known practically by heart. Its smell, its weight in her hands, came back to her. "They grow up together; best friends since childhood; closer than brothers. One day they travel into the land of a tyrant king. One of them is arrested on charges of sedition and thrown into the king's dungeon to await execution. He pleads for a stay, and a week's freedom so he can go home and say goodbye to his family. He swears on his honor that he'll return. But of course the king won't let him go."

Cabrese listened.

"The other man makes an offer to the king. "Let my friend go home, and I'll take his place as your hostage. If he doesn't return, execute me." The king agrees. The two friends clasp hands. One of them enters the dungeon and the other rides off for home."

"But the days pass, and the friend does not return. As the date set for the execution approaches, the guards taunt their prisoner: "You're a fool; your friend has grabbed his freedom and left you to taste the axe." And the hostage - maybe he has doubts in secret. But he stays loyal. Then the execution day comes; he's dragged out and bent over the block, and the blade is raised above his neck. But at the last moment, there's a commotion at the gate. The missing man has returned, screaming out his friend's name. It turns out he's been trying to get back but calamities kept getting in his way. He was captured by pirates and jumped into the sea to escape them, swam to shore, ran a hundred miles back to the palace, all in a desperate race to put his own neck on the executioner's block, and save his friend."

She should have been embarrassed for confessing too much. But he was looking at her in a way that made everything all right.

"And the king," he said quietly. "The king was so touched by their love that he pardoned them both."

"You know that story?" She was surprised. Delighted, in spite of herself. 

"I love that story. Damon and Pythias." 

"I didn't think anyone knew it but me." 

"I was a quiet kid. Read a lot. I had a book of all the Greek myths."

"What was on the cover?"

He smiled. "Pegasus and Bellaraphon, on the wing. Bellaraphon held a golden sword raised over his head. And Mount Olympus gleamed up ahead, in the distance." 

"Bellaraphon's hubris, before the gadfly and the fall. He didn't end well, remember? My book was different. Hardcover. Beautiful. It had all the gods and goddesses on thrones, surrounded by golden rays. I don't know where it came from. It was like the only book we owned." She shrugged. "Probably I stole it." 

"My favorite hero was Perseus. I liked all the trials he went through to get to Medusa. And then the revenge scene at the end, when he turned his enemies to stone." 

"Oh, no, that's good but that's not the end. The end comes years later. He's all grown up and happy when he throws the discus at a sporting competition. It flies off course and kills an old man in the stands. Who turns out to be his estranged grandfather, the king, fulfilling the prophecy made before his birth. Thus, the moral of the story."

"Which is what?"

"You know it as well as I do. _Man cannot escape his fate."_

"Did it fly off course by accident? I seem to remember that one of the gods gave it a push." 

"Yeah, well, probably. The gods always get their man, in the end." 

He smiled. "You're a smart girl. You got a scholarship to college, I bet." 

"Yeah." The sudden turn made her wary. "Maybe I did. So what?" 

"I'm just interested. A poor girl from the neighborhood, right? A girl who beat the odds. Made good." 

Maybe she would have warmed to him because he knew the same myths she did, but she wasn't an idiot. She knew flattery when she heard it. " 'Made good' might be overstating it." She looked around pointedly. The four walls of Cabrese's office looked back. 

He reached into his desk. "Here. Got a present for you." He handed her a black notebook with a spiral binding, the kind kids took to school. 

"What's this?"

"Just a blank notebook." 

"A journal? Because I don't do that journal thing."

"Nah," he said. "Notebook. I promise." 

She shook her head. "I take no notes. And I never even think about Arbeztan." 

"But I didn't mention Arbeztan. Did I. You did, though." 

A beat passed between them. She wanted to think of something superior and mocking that would puncture his seriousness and shut whatever door he imagined he'd pried open. But he kept looking at her steadily. And in the end, she couldn't do anything but look back.


	16. journal 3:  Carana and me; how we met

July 18

Carana and I met on the first day of orientation. In the morning we all dropped our nametags into two bowls - one for girls and one for boys - and in the afternoon Jason did a fake drumroll on his desk and drew names for the roommate match. I got Carana and a one-bedroom walkup on Plavecka Ulice. Fourth floor, apartment H. The first thing I noticed about Carana was that she was blond and tall and pretty, and the second thing was that she had matching suitcases. I had nothing but a dirt-encrusted backpack and my usual introverted social backwardness, which didn't make for sparkling conversation as we moved our things into our new home and chose our beds and divided up the closet space and the bathroom shelves. But that night we went out to explore the city. We ended up at Staromestske Namesti at a cafe, watching the hours change on the big clock and spending too much money. 

How can I explain what happened at that cafe table that night? It was like any other conversation at first. We traded stories. I said something witty and she laughed. She told me she was glad she'd drawn me in the match because I was smart and interesting. She told me she already missed her parents. She was so easy to talk to that I told her why I missed mine. She listened. Then something happened, as fast and natural as falling. I still can't explain it. I lost myself. We went from two solid separate people to one molten pool of quicksilver. It was love, I guess, a thing I'd never felt. We laughed and laughed and I was weak-kneed and water ran from my eyes. She understood me and I understood her, because we were the same person, separated artificially into two different skins. That's how it felt. By the time we were walking home, I didn't know where I ended and she began; there was no more line between us. She told me about all the things she loved - her parents, her brother, her grandparents, church, fiance - and I loved them too. She told me she had doubts about being engaged so young. I could feel the pain of being torn between love and liberty, even though I'd never been serious with a guy in my whole life. Everything she felt, I felt all through my body, like I lived in her body and looked out through her eyes. I'd never had a friend like that. Maybe other people had, but not me. And so, by the time the night was over, I made a silent promise: that for the rest of my life, there would be nothing I wouldn't do for this girl. We were Damon and Pythias. I'd die for her. 

We were roommates and best friends. We could talk about anything. We never argued, almost, because the things that would annoy me about someone else, didn't bother me when she did them. She called her fiance, Chris Westerling, twice a week and cooed at him over the phone and I was glad for her; I just wanted her to be happy. We talked about him a lot. She used to say that Chris proved God was good, because when she was fifteen her mother told her to start asking Him to reveal the husband He had in store for her, and when she was sixteen, along came golden-boy himself, perfect in every way. He was clean-cut and handsome and faithful. She already had her white picket fence picked out. 

Religion was one of the things we disagreed about, but we had debates, not arguments, and I loved hearing her opinions. She thought of Jesus as a shepherd in robes with a dark beard and a staff, leading sheep through bright green fields. She admitted she'd seen this picture once in a children's Bible and couldn't get over it. Later when I crawled into Nevsanek, bleeding and half-frozen, and looked up to see dark-bearded Jaro with a rifle instead of a staff, saw the sheep turn the other cheek to get their throats cut, I wanted to tell her she'd been wrong and I'd been right all along: there were no gods on earth but if there were, they were fierce and hurled thunderbolts. The world ran on courage, honor and vengeance, not peace, not forgiveness. I spat this at Carana in the night while I stood guard over snowy roads, waiting for the chance to kill someone. I felt her presence, but she never answered me. 

I loved taking care of her. There were things she was no good at - being tough with people, making plans, paying the electric bill on time - but that was fine with me because anything I could do for her just gave me joy. It was always me who argued with the landlord when the heating system quit working. It was me who went with her to tell Jason she wouldn't work for one family any more, after the second time the dad rubbed up against her and said something gross. Almost every month she ran short of her stipend money just before the next check, so I shared mine with her. I went with her to TeachPrague parties when I really wanted to stay home, because she begged me and I'd have done anything for her.

She made everything fun and beautiful, me most of all. She made me generous. She made me better than I was. 


	17. the block

Callahan started every day with whatever task he hated most. Usually, that meant reading the rabid mouth-frothing the Daily Mirror's editorial page. This morning it was something worse. 

"22 Faces" was a one-man show that had recently opened in Sokhrina and become an overnight cultural phenomenon. The writer, director and star was Manir Sdiraz, Arbeztan's most famous comic actor and, in Callahan's view, one of its most loathsome. During his three years in Arbeztan, he had managed to avoid seeing Sdiraz; sadly, his lucky streak had just run out. The country's president had quoted a line from "22 Faces" during his Friday address to Parliament. Callahan's hand was forced. His job required cultural proficiency. If the president was quoting it, he'd have to watch the damn thing. He made a call to an old contact, and now he was unwrapping a bootlegged recording of the show that had arrived on his office doorstep. It occurred to him, as he settled back in his chair to watch, that there were days he _really_ hated his job. 

Not being a native speaker, there were some Arbezi art forms he had trouble with - poetry, for example, and the morose art films Azor used to insist on showing him. However, he had no trouble understanding Sdiraz. The new show included all the comic's usual characters, and some new ones as well: a haranguing sickly mother in a kerchief, an effeminate gay, and a grasping perfidious old man who chased money and was hated by his wife and sons. That last character had a Manzari accent, not heavy but not so faint his audience would miss it. 

Ever since Arbeztan's Jews had siphoned themselves off to Israel, for excellent reasons, the insults and whispers that could no longer be thrown at them were diverted to a new target: the Manzari. Up until fifty years earlier, the Manzari had been popularly lampooned as rural dolts. Now, in the vacuum left by the flight of everyone's favorite scapegoat, the Manzari became devious and conniving: bloodsuckers who hoarded gold beneath their barns and stables, who formed cabals that met in secret and plotted disloyalty to their motherland. It even was said that they were not pure Slavic - that generations back a Jewish stain had crept into the bloodline. Callahan suspected some universal truth about bigotry was being proved, both its malleability and its permanence. 

While Zdiraz cavorted across the screen, Callahan let his mind wander. He was worried about Angel. 

She had now been at the base for two weeks. He had stayed away from her, resentfully, knowing that Cabrese might have spies anywhere. Finally last evening he'd had enough, and had set his alarm early and gotten to Theta at seven and staked out a semi-secluded bench on campus that gave him an oblique view of number 42. Fuck Cabrese. He wasn't doing any harm. He just needed to know if she was all right. Eventually the door of her house opened and he watched her emerge looking pretty much the same as when he'd seen her in the breakfast place off the highway, wearing another long untucked shirt and a long peasant skirt sort of thing that dragged and billowed. As she crossed the quad, she stood out in comparison to everyone else, and the sight of her differentness gave him pain. In the cafe in Morsetown, at a table for two, he had been able to ignore her strangeness. Here, amid the groomed suits and uniforms of Theta, she looked almost like a street person who had wandered in by mistake. As she ambled along the path toward the South Complex, more than one person glanced curiously after her. He had an urge to run after her and usher her into his car, get her away to someplace kinder where she wouldn't be started at. Or better yet, get her to a clothing store. 

If she failed at the job, she'd take him down with her. Quentin had sponsored her six-month contract and would officially take the fall if she didn't work out - but in reality, he would just point the finger at Callahan. He was just beginning to realize all the things that could go wrong. Angel might not be strong enough for a sixty-hour workweek. Or that bastard Cabrese might get his hooks into her about Marchev and make her suicidal again. Before she came, he had been so sure of himself. He hadn't thought through the negatives too well. 

On the screen, Sdiraz was doing a gymnastic display of backflips, and the audience was on its feet roaring with approval. The curtain came down, then rose. Sdiraz bowed. Girls in the audience were screaming. He'd missed half the show, but couldn't make himself care. He pulled up the Daily Mirror editorials - now that Zdiraz had put him in a foul mood, he might as well go all the way. 

Then the phone rang. 

"It's my lucky day, sunshine," Corinne said. "Three o'clock, you come and see us both. The bigga head wants a word." 

He grinned into the receiver. "You gonna give me a hint what it's about?" But she just laughed. 

Quentin summoned him in and pushed a folder across the desk. The top page was the printout of a flight schedule from DC to New York to de Gaulle, landing in Sokhrina as his final destination. 

"Six weeks," Quentin said. "I got you conditional clearance. You're on a plane this Wednesday. I'm keeping you on a short leash, though. You report to me every day." 

Callahan stayed calm and professional all the way to the garage, and onto the beltway, and then the exit south. When he figured he was far enough away from DC that the drivers around him were strangers, he whooped. Then he turned the radio up to full volume and banged on the steering wheel, singing along with "Hard Day's Night." 

He knew exactly how to play Karel Simontov. Reminiscences before business. His job, officially, was to assure the new Minister of the Interior of America's good intentions, to get an insider's understanding of currents in the Arbezi military, and to buy time while the Karth assassin and Angel gave up what they knew about the separatists. He would promise Karel that the US government was about to approve his request for military aid against the Karth. But there was more to the assignment than the usual diplomatic games. He was also supposed to befriend Karel, drawing on their past connection. Drawing on their past connection, he would become an indispensable confidante and cultivate Simontov's allegiance to America, just as he'd cultivated Azor years before. 

Callahan considered himself born blessed. Not because he was decently smart and decently handsome like a million other miner's kids, but because he had one skill that had pulled him out of his dead-end future and set him on the road to a comfortable life. He was good at being liked. It came to him so naturally and from such a young age that for a long time he took it for granted. He figured out young that everyone - girls and cops and teachers, everyone - wanted something, and what they wanted was usually obvious. And he liked giving people that something, whether it was a compliment or a joke or a sense that they were smart, or important, or that their work mattered. He honestly liked people, and it didn't cost him anything to make people happy. And amazingly enough, he was rewarded for it. After he made people feel good, they wanted to do him favors. Girls wanted to do his homework. Neighbors sought him out, offered him odd jobs, then paid him extra. His principal called him into the office one day and told him he was meant for someplace better than Carlston and put a college application in front of him. He had ridden his talent for likability all the way to college and then beyond. He was accepted into the Foreign Service despite a test score that was less than stellar. At his first posting, Ecuador, his boss told him without envy that he'd be an ambassador within fifteen years. Callahan was happy with his work and would have been content to continue rising as a political officer, but the company noticed his particular skill and sent a recruiter his way, with an offer too intriguing to turn down. "You'll never go all the way. You won't run an embassy. You'll be inserted into places that matter, where you can make a difference." Governments, after all, were made of people. Everyone wanted something: politicians, generals, everyone. And what they wanted was usually obvious. 

Theresa was one person who saw through his line of bull from the beginning, from their very first date. "Don't try your famous charm on me. I don't find it attractive. Just dishonest." She could see through him, the way even his parents no longer could. She made him promise that if they saw each other again, their relationship would be a no-bullshit zone. There was nothing sexier than that. 

So tonight, when he broke the news to her about his upcoming trip, he wouldn't work up to it gently or buy her flowers or make dinner. She'd just want the truth without delay or subterfuge. "I have news," he said as soon as she walked in. Her face did not change expression when he told her. "Look," he finished. "I know you don't want me mixed up in Arbeztan again. But it's what we talked about. It's what I believe in." 

"I'm happy for you,because you're getting what you want," she said. "And you're right: I don't like it. But I've decided to be fair about it, so I'm sticking with that." 

Dinner was quiet, but she smiled at him when he came up behind her at the sink and kissed the back of her neck. She handed him a dishtowel. 

"Six weeks on my own," she said. "I'm seeing this as my chance to put in granite countertops with no opposition." 

The next days were devoted to preparations. Lydia Acheldt, another expert in eastern Europe, would teach his class while he was gone. He told Elizabeth that he'd continue to file his M.A. reports from Sokhrina. "File them a day early," she answered. "So I get them on time." He packed his suitcase and confirmed his flight time. Finally, he called Paul Cabrese. 

.

Theta Block lay twenty miles down a wooded road from the rest of Theta base. The two installations were entirely separate: Theta base was managed by the State Department, whereas the Block was under military jurisdiction. The road that connected them was well-traveled by government personnel - mostly guards and people like Cabrese - but he himself had never had reason to go there. Years ago, he had gone to see it out of curiosity and been struck by the contrast it gave with the lush and sussurous green of the Virginia woods. Its blank brickface was nearly devoid of windows, making it look singularly blind and stolid and immutable. Even if you ignored the chain-link fence and the armed guards, you'd never take it for anything but a prison. 

Security at the Block was a more serious business than at the base. At the outer gate he handed over his ID and was motioned out the car. He stood to the side while the car was searched, something he hadn't been expecting. He was directed to a nearby parking lot and then escorted through an inner gate where he was photographed, had to show his ID again, signed in, stated his business to two different administrators, passed through a metal detector, endured a pat-down, filled out forms, and left his thumbprint. Finally his escort led down a hall to a room with dim light and a long observation window. Two people were on his side of window, both wearing headphones and staring intently through the glass. One was Cabrese. 

Through the window he could see a cell furnished only by a plastic mat on the floor. A young man was crouching in a corner, and a youngish woman - tall and fine-boned, with a boyish hairstyle he found attractive - was standing over him. Her posture and expression made it clear she was berating him. The boy was hunched and had his arms wrapping his knees. His head was down. He had dark lank hair, unwashed. Suddenly he raised his head and looked vacantly toward the window. His face made Callahan recoil. He was shockingly young and shockingly thin, and he looked so much like Angel - the starving, haunted Angel he'd found at Marchev - that they could have been brother and sister. 

Callahan had been thinking as he drove over that he would hate Azor's assassin on sight. But it was hard to see this boy as a stone killer. He was a kid who'd been sent out to kill Azor because the man doing the sending considered him expendable. 

Cabrese had noticed him and taken off his headphones. "Glad you made it," he said. "Have a seat." 

"Your boy looks bad," Callahan said. "Are you feeding him?" He realized as he said it that the question was undiplomatic as well as unprofessional. For one thing, It implied disapproval and distaste for interrogation work, which was vital to national security. For another thing, it was none of Callahan's business how much Cabrese was or wasn't feeding his prisoner. 

"The resemblance between them is amazing, isn't it?" Cabrese said. "The Karth been landlocked for centuries in those mountains . Everyone's a cousin. Place must be a paradise of recessive conditions." 

The other person in the room also turned now, adjusted her headphones, and held up a hand irritably for silence. She was about fifty, he judged, with a patrician nose and an elegant manner. From behind he had taken her for a much younger woman due to her high ponytail of creamy blond. She pulled off the headphones and shook her head. "I can't understand a word," she said. "She's got him riled up enough to talk, but I'm not even sure if he's even saying words or if it's just moaning and crying noises. You'll have to give me more time." 

"How much longer?" Cabrese snapped. "We're all on a deadline, Ms. Lund." 

"Ten days, maybe two weeks at the outside." She spoke dismissively. "Unless you can pull another Karthic translator out of thin air, you'll have to be patient until then." She snapped to her feet, giving Callahan an impression of spare efficiency, and strode out. Callahan was impressed by her cool. A company linguist ranked far below a debriefer in status and pay grade, but this one didn't seem awed or deferential around Cabrese. She was confident in her ability to hold her own and do the job. Did that mean Angel was working out? 

Cabrese turned to him. "Did you have any problems getting in the gate? I told them to expect you but I wasn't sure if they'd give you a hard time over your clearance." 

"I've got clearance. I'm leaving for Arbeztan tomorrow. I'll be gone almost two months. That's why I came - to see if I you need any help with the boy, before I go." This was not why he had come, of course. Cabrese would know that it was not why he had come. But there were formalities to be observed. They were colleagues here, not debriefer and subject. 

"Thanks for thinking of it. But as you can see, the interrogation hasn't actually started yet. The language barrier is still a problem. Although I understand Ms. Lund's Karthic instructor is doing a good job teaching her. Everything's going fine." 

"I'd like to see her before I leave. I think she'd appreciate a goodbye. I shouldn't just disappear on her." 

He knew before Cabrese spoke that the answer would be no. "I know your heart's in the right place, but I think it would hurt more than it would help." 

The statement was calm and final. Cabrese was making their positions clear: Angel was his property and he was her handler. Callahan was nothing. He said. "Give her my best, then. I'll look forward to seeing her when I get back." 

"I'm not being cruel or capricious. The reason it'll hurt her is that she cares so much about you." 

All the way home, he cursed Cabrese to hell and back. 

He found Theresa out back on the little patio under the oak tree. She had work papers spread in front of her but as he approached, he saw her chin was propped in her hands and she was staring into the distance. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she didn't look at him. 

"Saw my dad today." 

"Oh. Not good?" 

"He's not taking his pills." 

"He told you that?" 

"Of course not. I went over there today after work, and I counted them. I filled the scrips for him two weeks ago and only a few pills are missing from each bottle. None of his metoprolol and only of four days' worth of the blood thinner." She shook her head. "Maybe it's a memory problem. Maybe he just can't keep track of what to take when, and won't admit it." 

He kissed her hair. "I think you have to let him be. Also, hello." 

Tears started into her eyes. "Without the blood thinner, his risk of stroke is eleven percent per year. If he doesn't control his blood pressure, it's probably higher than that. Can you imagine how he'd manage with a stroke? I can't think of anything he'd hate worse. All he has to do is take the pills right after he puts on his tie in the morning and takes it off at night. He'd never go a day without fixing his tie. So how hard is it to take some pills? But it's like he can't be bothered. It doesn't make any sense." Her voice trailed away. "He doesn't listen to me, though. I start talking and he tunes out. I can see it." 

Callahan understood what was being asked. "Okay. I'll talk to him." 

"No, don't. You're leaving tomorrow morning. You must have plenty of last-minute things to do." 

"I'll talk to him," he said. "Tonight." 

"You're an okay guy," she said. "I might actually miss you, a little." She stood and put her arms around him. "And I hope it's good, in Sokhrina. I worry what it will bring to you down the road - to you and to us - but that's just me; I see all possible combinations of every forthcoming roll of the dice, and it makes me worry. As you know." 

She saw him off to the airport the next day. "Be careful," she said, holding both his hands. He understood what she meant. Not, _be careful; don't get hurt or lost or robbed._ She meant he should be careful of the company, of its tides and currents that might suck down a man's soul. Be careful of having a hand in the next Marchev. 


	18. ithaca

"Waiting for the gun; that's the worst part. You take your position and you're ready at first, but every second that goes by, you feel your strength draining out of you. And then, bang, you hear the shot. You snap open like a spring. Then you're committed to it and there's no way out; you're just burning alive and you'd give anything for it to be over. That's the fatal irony, you see? First you can't wait for it to start. Then you can't wait for it to end. And then." She grinned crookedly. "Then, the next weekend, you do it all over again." 

He laughed appreciatively. He was good at that: appreciation, admiration, subtle flattery. She saw his tactics for what they were and had cautioned herself from the first moment not to fall for his crap. Still, he'd gotten his claws into her. She couldn't help herself; she thought about him too much. She looked forward to seeing him, but the important thing was to never let him know this. She maintained a cool exterior. She was flippant. She bragged about her triumphs: college days, long gone now, when she was young and could pass for normal. 

"How long is a regatta?" he asked. 

"A race. _Regatta_ means the whole shebang, all the events together. Most races are two thousand meters. They take about six minutes, which feels like forever when you're in the middle of it. The whole time, you pretty much want the sky to split open and lightning to strike you dead. But in the fall it's different - those are called head races, and they're mostly five kilometers."

She could almost smell the river, green and rich, and she could see night herons crouched silent along the weedy shore and feel the pricking thrill of being up before the sun with her teammates when the city was silent and they were like a cabal of plotters on the docks. Silently they'd climb into the boat, shove off from the dock and glide into the mystery of dawn. Some mornings, when the rain was lashing hard and roiling the surface, the smell was different: fresher, like a secret had emerged from the mud. 

The first few times she heard an isolated gunshot in the mountains, she had momentarily flamed up in excitement. Her body and been trained to jump at the starter's pistol. 

"If it hurts so much, how do you make yourself keep going?"

"There's a classic line you hear from every coxswain ever born. 'Just hang on for one more minute. You can do anything for one more minute.'" And when that minute's over, they say, 'One more minute!' Yeah, I know; it's stupid. It shouldn't work, but it does."

"And this was your game." Cabrese laughed. "This was your idea of a good time." 

"Oh, yeah." 

"Why?"

"Because I was good at it. I was invincible, and I loved the coach and he loved me best." She cut her eyes away in embarrassment. She shouldn't have revealed so much. But she couldn't stop. She slid a toe forward toward the edge of the cliff where the abyss lay. "It's kind of a break. From thinking. It's like a vacation for your mind." She was afraid he would be repulsed, but he wore his usual expression of encouragement. She cleared her throat. "It's like, you're just an animal, a sled dog, or even less than that - you're just muscle and you obey orders. Whatever the cox calls for: more power, a higher rating, you do it. You give up all independent thought, and escape yourself. You-- belong to something bigger. You sacrifice yourself for it." 

She had known this feeling first on the river, and later in the mountains. She would have died for her coach, her coxswain, for Jaro Koslan. All it took was a mission and an order. 

"I can understand the attraction." 

She became suddenly aware of her body, and what he must see in it: broad thighs spreading in the chair; overweight, over the hill, wrecked and weak and telling boring stories of glory days long gone. "Well, I'm not like that anymore," she mumbled. 

"You haven't been rowing since you got back to Boston?" 

She shrugged, feeling her cheeks heat up. "It's expensive." 

"You're how old?" he asked.

"Twenty-nine."

"You ever play any other sports?"

She'd hauled equipment up in the Kar-Paval against the wind. She'd dragged a loaded travois up the slopes and unloaded the goods into a cave, then gone back down to do it again, eight times, from dawn until dusk in a race against sundown. Scrambling and crawling among the snow-capped boulders, she'd kept her head down and crept as close as she could to the advancing line of artillery fire coming up the mountain. 

"Ran track in high school but wasn't very good," she told him. "Went rock climbing a few times, but hated it. I did some biking in Europe, the summer before Prague. Came out of the mountains once in a thunderstorm, down into Strasbourg; couldn't see a thing with the sky black and the rain lashing me in the face as I rode. Hit a rough patch and got thrown. Nearly got killed. My ankle was all twisted up, my bike lying across the road, wet wheels spinning, my knees torn up so blood was running down my legs and mixing with the rain. My panniers had busted open and my stuff was scattered. I could barely walk but I had to hop back and forth gathering everything, getting the rental bike to safety, and the rain was still pelting me, and the whole time I was terrified a car would whip around the curve and end me."

"I can picture it," he remarked. "Tough girl."

"Once upon a time."

He considered her for a moment. Then he said, "You think Marchev made you weak. It didn't, though. You've done that to yourself."

Marchev. The word made her mind go blank. All the doors slammed shut, the shutters slammed and locked, the windows blinded themselves, she retracted into a tight knot in a locked shell _Marchev._ She had been talking about the Vosges. She'd been invincible there. She'd thought he was with her, admiring her young glory as she careened headlong down a mountainside. But no, he was thinking of Marchev all along. What she'd been there. What she'd allowed there.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You needed to hear it."

"I have to go." She shaped the words small and tight, ejecting them through the spaces between her teeth.

"It's not time yet." 

She wanted to storm out, but her body had gone rigid and she was fixed to the sofa. 

He went on. His voice was like the drip of water on stone, wearing holes in her she couldn't fend off. "You like the Greek heroes, right? What do you think about Odysseus?" 

She looked angrily away, intending never to say another word to him. But the pressure of the silence built. Finally she snarled, "What about him?" 

"He didn't give up; that's what. Took him twenty years, but he made it back to where he wanted to be." 

"I'm not Odysseus."

"You want to be. Don't tell me you don't miss Ithaca." 

He had lulled her into trusting him. It was a trap and she'd been dumb enough to fall into it. She'd let him get to her and now he was flaying her alive for entertainment. 

"You survived the war," he continued, "but you quit on the journey back. You stopped among the lotus eaters. If that stalker in Boston hadn't threatened you, you'd still be there forever. Now you're here. Look around. This is Calypso's island, but you won't get to stay seven years. Six months - then your contract's up and you go back out there." He nodded toward the window. "It's a big ocean, hero. And if you haven't noticed, Poseidon's not your friend. Don't waste your chance. You blow this, you go out there on your own again, and I won't be around to help you. Not me, and not James Callahan." 

"Go fuck yourself." It was all she could think of saying, a weak defense but the only one within reach.

"You'll leave this place," he hissed, "and then you'll be back on the other side of the gates. That Arbezi guard and others like him are still out there with a grudge, waiting for you. And, assuming you aren't raped and murdered by him, you'll still have fifty years ahead of you. What are you planning to do with it?"

She got herself moving at last, pried herself up, made for the door. But he was faster, lunging out from behind his desk to clamp a hand on her wrist and jerk her around to face him. She pulled away desperately, but he was stronger. "Church secretary?" he sneered. "Really?" He flung her wrist down. Like he was done with her. Like she disgusted him.

Back in her apartment, she locked herself in. Her wrist felt bruised; he'd grabbed her hard enough to grind her bones against each other. She couldn't believe he'd done that, laid a hand on her, that he'd talked to her like that. She had a murderous fire behind her eyes. She should kill him. She should kill herself, to spite him. These people were all the same: they got you with your guard down, and they tore into you and mocked you to your face and laughed about it. She walked in circles. She could use a bottle of wine. Or vodka. Wodka worked faster. She hurled herself into her bed and stared up, her thoughts heating from red to bloody scarlet. Fuck Cabrese. "Tough girl," he'd mocked. He had no clue. She'd stood in front of Jaro on her second day in the mountains and told him exactly that. "I want to fight," she had said. He hadn't believed her. They'd laughed at her, too, all of them. But she'd shown them all. 

There was no Katin here, no Jaro, no fight, no way to regain her pride. There was only isolation and white walls. Cabrese was off somewhere, sneering at her, laughing with other men about how he bested her. He'd grabbed her wrist and made her his prisoner and she hadn't had the strength to stop it. It always came down to that. She pounded her fist into her mattress, beat her face violently into her pillow. It didn't help. If she knew where he lived, she'd set his house on fire and roast him alive and then cut her own throat on his doorstep so everyone could see what he'd done to her. But even that revenge was out of reach. She buried her head under the blanket, clutching the sheet against her swollen eyes. 

When she woke up it was dark. The clock read quarter-past eleven and it took her a moment to remember where she was and what had happened. She didn't feel any better. Shoving open the bedroom window, she stuck her head out. The night was warm with a wet breeze was gusting. When she was young, this had been her favorite kind of weather: the rising wind that presaged a thunderstorm. It called to her still. It would be a balm to get out of here and stride through the dark and give herself to the wind - but she couldn't even do that. It was past curfew and she wasn't allowed. Except, fuck them. Fuck their rules. She was done with them. She pulled on her shoes. She hesitated over the blue pass that she'd tossed on the counter earlier. Fuck that, too. She slammed the door behind her.

Out on the grounds, she crossed to the nearest quadrangle and walked along the diagonal footpath, keeping her head down. She felt fierce and bitter. She reached the far side of the quad and stomped past the Chelmsford building, and fifty-six, and other buildings she hadn't learned the names of. She didn't pause at the sight of a guard in khakis up ahead.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said as she approached. "May I see your badge, please?"

"Don't have one." She pushed past him, not slowing down.

"Ma'am, I need to see a badge or I'll have to ask you to--" He put a hand on her upper arm and she shook him off - tried to, but his grip tightened and she spun towards him and tried to yank free, and she knew what she was going to do an instant before it happened. Her free hand balled into a fist and she threw a punch at his mouth. He turned and ducked and she caught his cheekbone, which was good enough for her.

Pain spurted through her right shoulder as he brought her arm up behind her, bending her double. His legs tripped her up as she was thrust down onto the path and then he was on top of her, a knee at the small of her back, her wrists in handcuffs a moment later. 

/

They took her to a building, to a front desk where she gave her name while looking down at the floor, and then into a room with bare walls and a long window and a metal bench. When she sat down, they took the cuff from her left wrist and clipped it to the underside of the bench, pinning her right arm. Her shoulder was still throbbing. Guards passing down the hall looked in at her through the window, curiously. Someone arrived with a form and asked her questions and made notes. After he went out, she could hear him making a phone call. She yanked at the handcuff that held her - checking, without much optimism, if she could work herself free. The guard stuck his head back in when he heard the noise and said, "Stop that." He went out again. A long time passed. There was no clock. She put her left hand up over her eyes, which were burning. She didn't want anyone to see. 

Later she heard Cabrese's voice outside the room. "It's all right. I'll take responsibility for her."

"She attacked a guard on watch."

"She's a civilian. I'm working with her. Special circumstances."

"Regulations demand--"

"She'll be dealt with by her supervisors in the morning."

She heard more talk, indistinct. And finally Cabrese saying firmly, "Thank you."

Cabrese entered with the guard who had done the paperwork. The guard was brusque. "You're being released for now. In the morning charges will be submitted and the authorities will take it from there." He uncuffed her and she stood up sullenly, rubbing her wrist.

"With me," Cabrese said.

She was trying to figure out her next move but no answer was coming to her, so she trailed along sullenly, a pace behind him. He led the way out of the security building and across the dark and silent grounds; she walked slowly, not wanting him to think she was chagrined or defeated. Without a word, he led her to a building on the far side of the quad. The passed through a vestibule, then through double doors, and on the other side she found herself standing in a large, high-ceilinged gym. A stiff canvas curtain hung from rings on the ceiling, partitioning the space into two rooms: one side a basketball court, the other filled with equipment: free weights, treadmills, bikes. Against the walls, ropes hung from the ceiling along with a cargo net and a climbing wall to the ceiling twenty feet above. The whole place was nearly deserted. One man was doing bench presses in a tank and shorts, grunting as he heaved. The room smelled of varnish and ammonia. In her skirt and pumps she felt out of place.

The bench press man sat up and lifted the hem of his shirt to rub his wet face.

She followed Cabrese to the corner. He pointed to a punching bag, the heavy kind that hung low. "You want to hit things? Here's the place."

She scowled. "I don't want to hit a bag."

"What then?" He raised his eyebrows. "Me?"

"You'll do." She didn't mean it. It was just something angry to say.

"All right then." He motioned. "Lose the shoes."

He was serious. What was he pushing her into? There didn't seem to be any honorable option except complying. She slipped her feet out of her pumps, slowly. 

"Go ahead, then. Hit me. Let's see what you got." When she hesitated he said, "I won't hit back." It was a taunt. Now she had no choice.

She had seen plenty of fights. The men in Kozlan's group fought for sport, the traditional way, _gashents_ it was called, around the fires in the evening. A string was used to tie the left wrists of both men, leaving about two feet of slack between - if the string broke because you were knocked down or fell or leapt back to avoid a blow, you were the loser. Occasionally there were real fights over an insult to someone's pride - though when Kozlan saw that he would stop it. She herself never fought. Nor had she ever fought before going to the mountains, except in middle school and twice against her father when she didn't have a choice. And at Marchev-- At Marchev, after the few feeble attempts to defend her helpless flesh and her dignity, she had just given up.

Cabrese had his hands up in loose fists, like he was barely trying. "Come on."

She stepped in and hit him in the chest. He made no move to protect himself and did not seem to feel her punch. In frustration she swung again and again. It hurt her knuckles more than it hurt him. After three or four blows, though, she was pleased to see him wince and start turning sideways to deflect her. She went for his abdomen, and finally his face, which he blocked. Her arms were already tired.

"Move your feet more," he advised. "If you stand like you're stuck in cement, I'll knock you down with my first punch. Keep your body turned to make less of a target."

She didn't want a goddamn boxing lesson. She stood where she was and took another shot at his face.

"Fine. Learn the hard way." His fist flew out and caught her in the chest, making her gasp and stumble back. Shocked, she dropped her hands. "Put them back up," he said. "Defend yourself."

She shook her head; _no way._ His hand flew out, striking her ribs in the same spot as before, knocking her backward. "Hey! Stop it."

"You started it." She saw the next blow coming and tried to dodge sideways. It glanced off her forearm; sending waves of pain into her hand. She went after him again, and he blocked her again. She expected a smirk. Instead he was serious. "Good." 

He swung and this time she stepped back and turned, but still took most of the force with her shoulder. She was sweating and panting already, and her shirt was askew. "Your turn," he said. "First I hit, then you hit."

Grimly, she nodded and launched another punch. Her arms ached. "Not good enough. Try harder." If she weren't exhausted she would have told him to go to hell, but she needed all her strength. He hit her in the sternum again, making her cry out. She dropped her hands.

"I'm done."

He hit her again. "Then you lose your turn."

"Fuck you." She swung for his face; he deflected.

"Good effort." Then he caught her in the chest. He was using only a fraction of his strength. He could level her with one punch if he wanted to. "You miss being strong," he said. "You could get it back."

Instead of answering, she hit with everything she had. It wasn't enough to even move him off his stance.

"I'll make you a challenge," he said. "If you beat me, you don't have to see me any more. I'll have your contract changed. Then you can go your own way, run your own life - run it into the ground if that's what you insist on doing. But if I beat you, we reach an understanding. I call the shots from here on, and you do what I say."

She shook her head. "No." She didn't want to admit the truth: she couldn't stand for him to cut her loose. She wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted someone to fight for her and save her. 

"It will be fair. It's a contest you can win. You get twenty tries to hit me. All you have to do is graze me with your knuckles, just once. You know you want to."

He was right and he was wrong. She didn't want to be free of him, but she still wanted to smash his face in. She leaped forward and threw a punch, but he jumped back and she hit only air. Rage took over. She went after him, swinging wildly. He dodged. Round and round she chased him. "That's five," he said. She was panting heavily. Finally she thought she had him cornered against a wall, but he ducked and spun away. "Twelve." 

"I give up," she said sulkily. Her shirt was sticking across her breasts. "I can't."

"You're quitting? Really? You won't even try?"

She shook her head. "Forget it. I'm done."

He came towards her. "You know, if you don't even have--" And that's when she lunged with a cocked fist and went low towards his abdomen, almost getting him, except that he jumped back and twisted his torso sideways like a contortionist. "Oho, tricky, are we?" He grinned. "Nice try, but no. Thirteen."

She ran out the rest of her chances on wild roundhouses, frustrated and already knowing she was beat. When he said "twenty," she turned away angrily. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face him. "Focus," he said, "because I'm done pulling my punches."

She barely had time to register that, when a jab went into her ribs and knocked her to her knees, leaving her gasping. Her side hurt, and she was about to shout indignantly - but his eyes were hard, and the protest died back in her throat. "Get up. Up on your feet." She struggled up, and was barely upright when the next blow landed in the same place and she fell again. From the mat, she bared her teeth. 

But he didn't mock. "Get up," he said again. 

She lumbered to her feet. 

His look was knowing and intent. Like he wasn't playing gavmes anymore. Like something deep was opening between them. She waited, tense and uncertain. Then his fist flashed and struck, and she gasped and folded, falling to her hands and knees. Staring down at her, he nodded. "Again," he said. "Up." 

At Marchev, she had been knocked down. She had been forced to crawl in front of her captors. They liked that. But Cabrese was not taunting her. He reminded her of Jaro, the way he had looked before the Chineiz battle when he pulled her aside and gripped her shoulders with his hands. _I want you behind that rock, no matter what. No matter how close they get, you stay and you keep firing._ She had swelled with the fierceness of devotion. Her commander believed in her and she'd never let him down. She'd stay behind the rock and keep firing. She'd die firing. 

"Get up now," Cabrese said again.

She hesitated.

"Get up." 

There was no sneer in his voice, just urgency. _Be strong,_ that's what he was saying. _Show me your valor._

She had always believed in valor. Had raised herself on dreams of valor

She collected herself. Her body was trembling with fatigue but she instructed it to move and, slowly, it obeyed. She drew herself up on one knee and then got her feet under her. She rose and tried to keep herself steady despite her shaking legs. "Good," he nodded. "This is the last one. Show me what you're made of." 

She had no hope of blocking it, but she put her fists up and angled herself sideways.

"Ready?"

She nodded.

The strike landed high in the abdomen and she folded like cardboard. Pain blazed through her as she fell. Then she was on her hands and knees and all she could think about was trying to breathe. He had hit her in the place that knocked the wind out. "Easy," Cabrese said, kneeling down beside her. "Give it a minute." He rested a hand on her shoulder.

Gradually, her lungs unlocked. She panted shallowly. She should be getting away from him, wrenching away from the hand on her shoulder.

"You got broken over there," he said. "I'm going to fix you."

She didn't want to fight him anymore, but still she couldn't give in. She hissed, "You want me to talk about it. Arbeztan. But that will only make things worse." 

"No." He was impassive. He was her shelter. "I promise. You won't have to say a word." 


	19. callahan with karel.  Theresa alone, going her own way.

"Here in glory." Callahan raised his glass and spoke the traditional Arbezi toast to dead comrades. Simontov echoed him, and then they both drank, emptying their glasses and slamming them down on the table. Simontov reached for the carafe and poured: a splash for Callahan, a splash for himself. Then he filled both glasses to the brim. That was tradition. There was a protocol to the drinking of _kiriri_ , the bitter, golden drink flavored with the blossom of the lowland _pridan _berry. Centuries ago, _kiriri_ had warmed the throats of caravan drivers, back when Sokhrina had been a major stop on trade routes between east and west. __

They were alone - almost, since Simontov's security detail occupied a table near the door - in a private room on the top floor of Club Liliane. The ceiling was aged gold filigree and the walls were muted green, hung with huge tapestries that showed scenes of the hunt. The carafe was half empty, as was the dish of sugar cubes that stood beside it. Simontov drank too eagerly, almost desperately, his long fingers tight around the square corners of his glass. Already his eyes had lost some of their clarity. He had never been much of a drinker in the old days. Callahan was planning on using that to his advantage. 

"It's been too long, old friend," Simontov said for the second time. "Where in God's name has America been keeping you?" 

"At a cramped desk, in a small room, under a stack of documents. I've missed your country. And the Liliane is still the best club in Sokhrina, I see." 

Simontov glowed, his face lit by the wrought-iron lantern that flickered above their table. The Liliane had been Azor's vision, one of his strokes of bombastic genius. He had dreamed up after a stroll through the ruined castle of Duke Ferandt that stood atop a hillside outside the city. Unlike every other club in Sokhrina it didn't copy and strive to outdo the modern western style: chrome and glass and sleek counters. It was the opposite. It recreated in loving detail Arbezi's glorious, ruined past of medieval glamour and self-importance. Its tasteful richness was displayed in dark marble floors, gilt-edged mirrors, balconies, romanesque arches between rooms, and winding staircases that swirled under patterned ceilings. "This is what people have forgotten," Azor told Callahan one day, when their friendship was still in development. They were walking through the construction site together. Azor greeted the foremen by name and they looked dazzled by his attention. "This is the glory we've let slip away, because we've become too lazy to remember and to fight for it." That was a few months before the war. Azor had pointed at the iron skeleton of the central dome and recited a few lines of medieval poetry by Lurosic. Callahan for the first time understood a little of Azor's longings. What he wanted was immortality. In fact, Azor would have been Lurosic had he lived in Arbeztan during the old days: a fierce horseman and commander whose verse extolled the rough wild life of caravan-men and fighters, as well as the beauty of unattainable women and the bloody code of Arbezi honor. 

Azor had loved the Liliane the way you'd a daughter born late in life. But just as the building neared completion, Azor had stunned Callahan - and Simontov - by stepping aside and asking Simontov to take his place as a managing partner. On the night of the grand opening, it was Simontov who had presided as the club's host. He stood stiffly beside his attaches, greeting the invitees as they disgorged themselves from limousines outside the carved bronze doors. Azor had arrived as a mere guest. Callahan had been in his party, as usual, and had witnessed Azor shaking Simontov's hand with gravity and congratulating him on the splendor of the place. Cameras had popped around the two men. The front page of the Globe, the next day, carried a photo of that handshake. Simontov's ascendance as Azor's heir apparent was secured. 

That was Azor. The gift of the Liliane was intended as a public show of loyalty, and a way of burnishing Simontov with some of his own glamour. Simontov was serious and hardworking and indispensable, and no one paid attention to him. Azor himself soaked up all the adoration in any room. It wasn't his fault, but he felt bad about it. 

Callahan and Simontov had not planned to meet here. Their reunion had been arranged for the Federal Building. Callahan had followed protocol, bringing along one of the junior political officers to enhance his standing and honor his host. Simontov, following custom, had brought two junior officers of his own. However, Simontov's dress and mannerisms were more ostentatious than they used to be, as if he had adopted some of Azor's flair. He surprised Callahan by following up his western handshake with the formal embrace given by Arbezi to relatives and close friends: a kiss on each cheek and a double-clasp of the shoulders. Then Simontov said, a little pompously, "Let's not waste time in this place. Come to the Liliane with me." The junior officers were dismissed and Simontov's driver appeared, along with his security detail. Soon they were being seated by the Liliane's elegant hostess in a private room on the top floor. The security men withdrew to surrounding tables at some distance from the two of them, to give the illusion of privacy. Chogav was not among them. Callahan wondered what had happened to the man after Azor's death. 

"Where are you staying?" Simontov asked. "If you're not happy, say the word and I'll find you something better. Have you seen the new downtown hotels? Sokhrina continues to grow. The past years have been good for us." 

"I've seen that. But don't worry; I have an apartment in Sureyic district. The US government has done well by me. They must want me to enjoy myself and stay a long time." 

"Sureyic is the best place still. My own apartment is still the one you'll remember, on Murdaneva. Last year I bought a second home in the countryside, my wife's idea, but I was looking forward to it. It's quieter, and the noise of the city bothers her. That's where she spends most of her time now. I had hoped to spend weekends there, enjoying some peace. But now, since Azor-- Well, I don't think I'll get to the countryside too often." 

"You've only just stepped into your new position. This is the hardest time. Give it a few months, and you'll have everything running smoothly. Then you'll be able to enjoy yourself again, just like always." 

They talked about the changes that had come to Sokhrina's downtown. In the four days since his arrival, Callahan had spent his free time in the evenings strolling through the town, visiting his old haunts. Despite new construction in the modern section of the city, most of what he saw was heartbreakingly familiar. Squealing tires and honking horns were the music of the streets. The famous kiosks, many of which had been family businesses for eighty or a hundred years, still piped music of the traditional lowland dances into the air. The kiosks were manned by men who knew the news and the best jokes and greeted their customers by name. The women of the family did the baking. You chose your kiosk for the quality of its bread and the good humor of its owner. All the kiosks bore the names of women: Martina's, Klari's, Ona's - names of the long-gone grandmothers and great grandmothers who had baked the first loaves and spiced _lannu_ rolls sold their by their husbands generations ago. 

Sokhrina was the oldest city in Arbeztan, and a legend described its founding: Sometime before the birth of Christ, a noble wolf-man of the Kar-Paval had descended from the highlands. He had come down, chasing a golden stag onto the coastal plains. Upon glimpsing the lowland's beauty he turned his back on his ancestral mountains. It was hard to imagine the current city as having ever been a land of golden plains. Now it was a snarl of twisted streets and stacked stone high-rises. The city center was a labyrinth of cobbled lanes, built for carthorses, that and had not adjusted well to the age of automation. But that was Sokhrina's charm. It was its own place. But too many of its narrow streets and bars and fountains made him think of the past with a sense of loss. 

To catch his breath after the fumes of smoke, bread, and gasoline, he walked down the Boulevard of Hopes to Sambri Park in the city center. There, ancient oaks were planted in a colonnade and stone paths twisted between statuary and stately arbors. In one corner was a fish pond still stocked with koi, or something like koi, their red and gold scales igniting the rocky shadows like flashes of dim fire. His second morning in the city, he paid ten rachki at the kiosk for a paper bag full of fish kibbles, and he walked out on the footbridge to the pond's central island and sat on a bench by the water. Soon he had a school of fish and swans gliding below his feet. The koi were elegant and mysterious when the moved in the shadows, but seen up close, scrabbling for food like pigeons at St. Mark's, some of the mystery went out of them. When the bag was nearly done he upended it and poured out the last handful of pellets, sending the koi into undignified ecstasy.

He strolled along the Canal, built during the reign of Queen Raga. It had an acid odor from the ink factories that dumped their raw waste upstream. At the embassy, they used to joke that the pollution was so thick anyone could walk across the water. As he walked he smiled inwardly at the wild drivers who laid on their horns at every corner. This was his place. Just at sunrise, old women would line up at their favorite kiosks and sometimes come to blows as they jostled each other to get the freshest _harvyet_ loaves for their families. At those same kiosks in the evening, if you slid a two-talar note across the counter and crooked your head in a certain way, indicating you were in the know, the counter-boy would sell you a bottle of local brew, tax free. 

His return to the embassy had been triumphant. On entering the main hall, he had heard his name called out in a rough accent. The fix-it man, a local genius named Minar, had recognized him first and greeted him like a cousin returned from the grave. Marie Latour, the receptionist, was in her ninth year at the embassy and was so effusive about his return that she practically tongued him while kissing hello. He suspected that she knew all about his disgrace. She was the kind of person who everyone liked and told secrets to. Probably knew everyone's secrets, but was too big-hearted to spread gossip herself. The company should recruit her, he reflected. Come to think of it: maybe they already had. No reference was made to his fall from grace or his past four years in a basement office at Theta. It was likely that no one knew about it, other than the ambassador herself. The official story was that he had "taken a teaching post at Theta" - not a great career move for an embassy man, but not shocking. You hit middle-age and dreamed of a settled home and family, so you put in a request for Theta or DC or one of the other unglamourous domestic assignments that could stretch on indefinitely. 

As always, paperwork details dominated the first days. The ambassador's appointments secretary had been assigned to work double-duty as his aide during his stay. She was brisk and good-humored, and he liked the contrast between her chubby Chinese face and Long Island accent. "Edwina Tsang," she said laconically, putting out her hand. She flipped through some papers that State had sent ahead of his arrival, applying a complicated system of colored post-it notes to different pages. "Your expense account isn't covered," she said. "The page fourteen they sent me came through badly and I can't read the numbers. No numbers, so no expense account as yet. It'll take another day or two. In the meantime try not to starve. But your an old hand; you must be used to this. We're a secure site, America's pride, but we can't make the faxes come out legible." She rolled her eyes and he laughed, because he was back in the fold and they were in it together: two strangers who knew how screwed up State was, and how many things were done on a shoestring or took five calls back home to straighten out. 

Erika Taylor was welcoming, and offered to get him up to speed and introduce him around if there was anyone he needed to meet. She wasn't a company woman - ambassadors never were - but since his assignment was completely aboveboard, he had nothing to hide and their meeting was relaxed. Over lunch she regaled him with personal insights about the new faces in parliament, who he knew only from his media browsing. She filled him in on the latest developments in trade negotiations with the Minister of Commerce and her silent vice-minister. She was frank about the fact that she had not liked Azor, but she held back from slinging mud on his grave, and Callahan liked her for this. She wasn't at all the cold and off-putting woman described in offhand gossip around Theta. 

Simontov lifted his glass to his lips again. His eyes had become misty. He became expansive and Callahan, who was only slightly touched by the _viriri_ ;, laughed long at hard at the jokes he told, that Azor had told better. They glided effortlessly into talk of home and family. Callahan produced photos of Theresa. Simontov bragged about his children, who had gone to European universities and were now back in the country, getting established in law and business. From there, the talk moved on to figures they both knew - political leaders, ministers. Simontov spoke with veiled bitterness of the Group of Eight - the informal name for the governors of the eight most populous cantons in Arbeztan. The Group of Eight had backed Azor wholeheartedly and benefi ted from his patronage. The nine of them had formed an invincible group that held sway over all of Parliament. But Simontov hinted bitterly that they were pressuring him and would not let him rest. The alcohol was taking effect and his mask was slipping. 

It was plain that Simontov liked some aspects of his newfound importance - the petty ones, at least; he could snap his fingers at drivers and security men, and they no longer looked to Azor for confirmation. But leadership was not coming easily to him. He had inherited Azor's supporters and a measure of goodwill, but he could feel their support slipping away from him, and he had to be worried that Azor's loyal followers were beginning to despise him when his back was turned. Men with Rachatan connections, who had been deferential as long as Azor was alive, would now be encircling him with quiet menace. He must be realizing by now that if didn't bring them in line by leading with strength, he would just be milked by them like a despised cow. 

Simontov was by nature a thoughtful man, even-tempered and careful, but his precarious position would make him rigid and martial and liable to lash out. He was weak and he knew it and could not afford to be accused of it. If the ground eroded under his feet, he would become desperate like a cornered fox. It was an intereting paradox: of the two men, Azor had been the more unpredictable by nature, given to wild ideas, but it was Simontov who'd have a wild hand at the wheel of the country. Azor had been cushioned by an endless belief in his own instincts and by the adoration of the crowds and deference of politicians. He wasn't easily angered and was good-humored when Callahan argued with him about policy. He could often be influenced into changing his mind. He was never afraid of looking weak. Simontov would be different. 

There was something tragic about Simontov's situation. He had probably expected to spend his career quietly laboring in Azor's shadow. He had looked forward to slow mornings at the new country home, pottering in the kitchen beside his homely, cheerful wife. Now the country home had receded over the horizon and he could only long for it. He was trying to keep his head above water in a job he wasn't fit for. Why had he taken it? He had gotten the call, probably, right at Azor's death - maybe from the Prime Minister or one of hte Group of Eight, who would have wanted him to continue Azor's rule. There had maybe been a moment when he wavered and thought of turning the position down. Maybe he had been begged and flattered. Maybe he had thought suddenly of the power and prestige that had swung within his grasp. He'd made his choice and now his position owned him and always would, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do but try to survive it. It must also be a constant wound to know the whispers that followed him: _Simontov is no Azor. There will never be another like our Azor._

Finally it was time to turn the conversation toward the Karth. Simontov asked about Azor's killer. "Are you making him comfortable? Is he telling you anything about the criminals who gave him his orders? In his American prison, I'm sure you have ways of gaining his cooperation. Perhaps you take away his television and cake if he doesn't speak up." 

"I've seen his accommodations, Karel. They are not pleasant. But my main concern is the same as yours: not the man who had been caught, but the ones behind him, who are in the mountains and still enjoy freedom." 

"That's why you should convince your government to assist me. You understand, James, that this is not just about trade and politics - for men like us, it's a matter of personal honor. Azor was your friend, too, as he was mine." 

"I am with you. The Karth problem needs to be settled, for Azor's sake. The offer you've made - the mining treaty - has created a lot of excitement. I should probably not admit to you exactly how badly the US government wants and needs that treaty - but yes; you have a powerful bargaining chip there. However, before we speak of military action, my government has ordered me to discuss other avenues with you. You know that a conflict in the mountains will have a high cost for both our militaries. Have you considered negotiation with the Karth?" 

"They are all savages," Simontov said. "Is this what America wants - to coddle savages and reward killers?" 

"Leave the posturing, Karel. We are old friends; there are no reporters lurking in the corners; we can speak plainly." Callahan chose his next words carefully. "Assaults against the Karth on their home ground have been tried before. During the war there were attacks on the towns of the foothills, and raids up higher in the mountains, but you can't win against terrorism by raiding and retreating. A strong military response to the mountains will give your citizens satisfaction that something's being done, but that will burn out quickly, especially when your army takes losses, and gains are hard to measure. You'll make new enemies. You'll see more terrorism - murders committed by desperate people who are raised to hate you and are manipulated by their elders to go out in a blaze of vengeance. Consider negotiating with the Karth instead. There are some who have positions of influence and can be reasoned with. You might be able to offer them something they want, if they hand over the separatists over to you. A peaceful deal could be struck that would benefit everyone." 

Simontov snorted. "It's been tried. Over two years ago, the savages began using fire. The village of Chorit, south of Karth territory, was worst hit. Five homes burned in a single night; three entire families burned to their death. Azor and I were up for three nights without rest, getting the people moved to safety while the town burned. Finally, we called in the mayor of Tamar and the other Karth foothill cities. We made the proposal you're suggesting: a better life, certain advantages, if they helped us arrest the killers among them. They wouldn't listen. They're all more afraid of getting their throats slit by their noble separatist brethren. They call it honor and loyalty, when it's cowardice." 

Simontov had turned a blind eye to the Rachatan when he was Azor's protege. It was certain he still did. They were in Club Liliane, funded by Azor's connections. He was no better than Callahan who'd allowed the pits of Marchev to be filled with corpses. He was no different from the Karth mayors. This was the nature of things. It made his head hurt to think about it. 

Simontov went on: "The attacks have killed over seventy patrollers and forty-two Arbezi civilians since the war ended. Fourteen Arbezi villages bordering Karth-held territory have been abandoned due to terror. Whole villages. No one would stay. The government paid to move the people out to safer towns, gave them new apartments to quell the rumors. You'd think the Karth wouldn't stand for such butchery against innocent farmers. You'd think they'd turn against their noble separatist hero. But they like butchery; that's how these savages are. For them, if an Arbezi family is burned in their homes, that's a reason to celebrate." 

Callahan sat back. "I didn't know it was so bad." The Arbeztan media hadn't carried a word about deaths from terrorism or villages abandoned. Even the Daily Mirror, which raved against Azor and decried the decadent western-leaning policies, had carried nothing. 

"We Arbezi have always wanted peace, nothing else. If the savages considered themselves part of Arbezstan like the rest of us and stopped their violence, there would be no problem. But they have hundreds of years of Arbezi blood on their hands. Azor is only their latest victim. You see how it is: I can't bend in the face of terrorism, or it will just encourage them." 

"There was a time at the start of the war when Azor and I talked about the Karth. I suggested he win them over as allies against the Manzar. It would have been a good time to negotiate peace and it would have shortened the war. He could have given them a little of what they want: more autonomy, an infusion of money for construction projects like schools and roads. He wouldn't listen; he wanted them crushed along with the Manzari. Maybe he'd be alive if he'd thought differently. Instead, he's dead and everything's worse." 

"I would have chosen peace," Simontov said. "We didn't have to fight the Manzari, let alone the Karth. But as you say - it's too late now. An attack on the mountains is the only choice left. And with American technology and assistance, it will be a successful campaign for me - and I can make it a successful venture for your country, too." 

Simontov was trying to sound casual, but the note of urgency was there. He hoped a hard strike against the Karth would make Azor's supporters line up behind him. He was hanging all his hopes on it. He couldn't see any other path forward. 

Callahan leaned forward. "I don't envy you - heavy is the head that wears the crown. But I do admire you. I loved Azor; we all did. But you have a more level head and a clear vision, and if anyone can guide the country well, it will be you. And the US would be very glad to see things work out well for you and us both. We'd like to be the allies that you can turn to." He dropped his voice confidentially. "It's not an accident that I got tapped to make this trip, and be the one to represent US interests to you. I asked for it. I wanted to come back here and see justice done for our Azor. But I also wanted-- well, I wanted to see you again, and be back in Sokhrina, like in the old days. You don't know how much I miss the good times we had. Nothing in Washington can hold a candle to it." 

Simontov had been looking haggard, but at those words, a spark of happiness lit his face. Callahan gripped his hand and pursued his advantage. "Come on - let's set aside the serious talk for now, and you can tell me what I really want to know. Is Pyotr Kalik going to be as undefeatable this season in the ring as he was last season? And are the best seats in the balcony still reserved for you?" 

"If you are free Friday night," Simontov said, "I will take you to the _gazhents_ and we'll see Kalik fight. But if you bet on him, prepare to lose your money to me. He's a man without heart; nothing but fists. Brute savagery isn't enough to carry him forever."

.

Theresa was glad to have the house to herself. She had to think deeply about the Ecuador problem, and thinking was best done in absolute silence. If she waited until it was dark and then sat in the kitchen with all the lights turned off, she could let her mind delve into itself and solutions would come to her. Her mind would make connections, sparking from one circuit to the next. Patterns would emerge. She would see lines of attack and a clear path forward. 

Jamie once asked her how her brain worked and she had found the question ridiculous. "It does what it does. Like everyone else's. Like yours." Then he'd read her mind, known what was coming next, so they said it in tandem, laughing. _"Only better."_

The Ecuador problems could be solved in an evening of hard thought. After that, she would still have six weeks to accomplish all the things that were best done without her husband present. She would move ahead in her mind to Vision's next missions - Gambia, Nicaragua - and mentally frame the work that would be needed. She always started with the rough outline and then zeroed in closer, filling in successive layers of details and backup plans. 

She had plans for the home as well. The granite counters would be installed before Jamie came home to argue about the cost. Repairs were needed, too, and were best done while he was away, so there would be no danger of him insisting on doing them himself. He was good with his hands - something she wasn't - and she had a weakness for his working-man charms. But the truth was, his efforts were never completely pleasing to her. Take the deck off the kitchen, for example. He had excised the rotting hulk that had stood there before and built something strong and handsome. She had complimented him and meant it. But he had laid some of the planks so the seams lined up too close to their neighbors, and the effect maddened her so much that she couldn't stand to look down when she was out there. As for the path across the backyard: she had gotten an idea for it one day while marveling over the fissured bark pattern of the mighty oak across the yard. The idea had sprung into her of a rustic path that matched the ridges of the bark; same angles, same rough contrast of brown on brown. She'd made the mistake of mentioning her idea out loud, and Jamie had charged ahead and built a path - his kind of path, not hers - and expected to be thanked for it. She still mourned for the vision that was lost. She couldn't conjure her own path anymore when she looked across the grass. Jamie's path had squashed it.

It was something of a curse, her attraction to patterns and shapes and the movement of light and shadow. She was delighted by stands of tall grasses along the highway that stirred in the wind - but after a hard rain, when the stalks slumped or dangled broken necks, she was so bothered that it set her teeth on edge and she tried to keep her eyes on nothing but the road. 

She would find a day to muscle her father into the cardiologist's office. She'd make sure he was eating, too. If she put a weekend into cooking, she could stock his freezer with good food. She had learned most of her mother's special dishes, and he wouldn't be able to resist them. That is, he would claim he didn't need anything from her, but if she left them with him, they'd get eaten. 

She sighed. She was lining up tasks, and the whole time she knew they were nothing but a smokescreen and a diversion. She would have everything accomplished soon, and then she'd be left to confront the impending reality she was trying so desperately to ignore. 

The company. Jamie. The future. 

Jamie would do well in Sokhrina. She knew what would happen when he got back. The company would need him for more work in Arbeztan, settling whatever upheaval had been caused by Mirtallev's death. They would forgive him his trespasses and let him return to Ambassadorial or to something like it, where he could get his hands dirty in the game again. And she had promised - out of a sense of cold fairness, and against the silent raging of her own heart - not to stand in his way.

She went out the back deck and down the wooden stairs and along the not-quite-pleasing path to the table under the oak. For the past few weeks, she had been able to ignore the late nights and mystery meetings because that could mean anything or nothing. In fact, she had thought they meant nothing. Based on her knowledge of the company and Quentin's penchant for manipulation, she thought it most likely that the meetings were a bone the company was throwing her husband, to encourage his loyalty while they wrung him for whatever shreds of information they could get. The six-week trip to Arbeztan, on the other hand, was hard evidence that they were serious about him. He hadn't spelled out the work he'd be doing there, but it could only be one thing: he was being sent specifically to charm Mirtallev's replacement, Karel Simontov. So the six weeks would only be the start. 

Jamie was going to get back in. She never would. She sat at the table under the sweep of oak branches, and her rage grew. 

The last expedition she had equipped for the company had been maybe her favorite. She'd been in Honduras less than a year. The call came at the end of an average day: fourteen company men would be heading from Oro di Lago downriver by canoe, and she had less than a week to equip them. She had hung up the phone, drawn a breath, and plunged in, working without sleep, running two phones and three computers from her dank office, pulling strings across the region to bring the job in under the deadline. The antimalarials and canoes and mosquito netting were easy. Harder were the ropes, maps, and plastic ties. Harder still was the case of syringes and ampules of sedative, the refrigeration unit that was waterproof and light enough to carry, the kilo of cocaine and the twenty-thousand in cash. She got it done, though. When the deadline came, she went home to her apartment exhausted and lay down, unable to sleep, because she was with those fourteen men. She was traveling unseen as their invisible fifteenth, stepping into one of the canoes, crouching silently alongside them as they went into the San Cristobal river like ghosts.

She had been right to resign from the bloody business. Since she had been right, morally right, upright, pure, certain, and unyielding, she had absolutely no reason to regret her choice. It was illogical. And yet, there it was: she missed the company. She missed her old job. She had gotten used to missing it in an empty-ache way, and keeping her mouth shut about it, and doing her ersatz job for Vision with all her strength. But right now, thinking of Jamie in Sokhrina and Quentin licking his lips and the world of intrigue she was no longer allowed to be part of, the missing of it was like a hot knife through the lung.

She had always known her work got people killed. She had loved that - not the deaths exactly, but the way it heated her to play her secret part and be so close to danger and adventure and the raw throb of life at its most fragile and chancy, where blood pumped hard through arteries and out of open wounds. She loved the might and power of the company too, the silver clink of rich plotting across continents, and the intricate patterns visible in the fleeting shadows that her government threw across the world. She loved the gamble and the risk. The chilly numeric precision of her mind left her out of balance and craving big passions as if she were short on a neurotransmitter other people could synthesize themselves. She had to get it from outside herself. She'd gotten it from State, and just when she'd been getting bored with that, the company recruited her for something better.

Theoretically she wasn't supposed to know the outcome of any expeditions. She and Quentin had an understanding, though. They had a childish code, a nod to an argument they'd once had about baseball and whether it was the best or the worst sport ever invented, or both. He'd get the message to her a few days after the job wrapped up. "We pitched a perfect game," he'd say. Or, "We started strong, but got clobbered in the late innings. Went down pretty hard." 

"Were there any errors?" 

"No." It was always no. The losses were never her fault, but she always had to ask. 

The expeditions she equipped were dramatic and extreme, and she was tasked with propping them up almost singlehandedly, building an intricate scaffolding that supported assassins and adventurers as they stepped out into open air or black woods or small boats on the ocean. It was up to her to come through for them and she was great at it. Had been great at it. VI was sort of the same thing, and she wasn't any less great at it. But it mattered less. It was a tepid dilution of the brilliantly high stakes and high pressure she had once known. Before she threw it all away. 

And now Jamie was getting back in. He was the disgraced one, but he'd return to what he loved. She had chosen rigid principles and righteous wrath instead. That would be cold comfort when Jamie went back to foreign postings and she remained here at Vision trying to make the best of things. She was down a hole she had dug herself, and somehow all her logical arguments to herself were not making it better.

She went inside. In the first-floor office she sat in the computer chair and stared at the dead screen for a moment before turning it on. Her fingers skimmed the keys. It had been years since she'd called up the company's public website. It looked unchanged. She felt daring and desperate. She wasn't doing anything wrong, though. She was just looking around a little. She flicked through pages. She was searching for something that would satisfy the burn of envy Jamie's departure had kindled in her. The pages mocked her with their blandness. She did wonder, just a little, if Daniel Rinelli was still charged with overseeing tech security. It was a job he wasn't actually very good at, in her opinion. He was a math man like her, and he liked patterns. He used to have a fatal weakness for Bernoulli. 

Her fingers clicked faster. If she found a back door past Daniel's defenses, she'd give him an anonymous tip and tell him so, just to save him from embarrassment down the road. Desire was swelling in her. It was all harmless and she'd cover her tracks so no one could ever find out. Just this once she'd let herself have a little fun.


	20. angel:  first morning with miranda

Like a grape being burst out of its skin, Angel came awake in terror. The ceiling light blazed down. A figure was beside her bed and in a wordless flash she knew what was coming. Her throat squeezed shut on itself. She hunched back against the wall with the blankets clutched in front of her vital organs, her pulse slamming in her ears. 

"Sorry to scare you. I knocked and rang the bell, but you didn't wake up. Dr. Cabrese though you might not, so he got me a passkey." 

Was there a point to trying to make a run for it? Her body had gone stiff and wouldn't move if she ordered it to. Her mind was limp. She knew this feeling. It was like falling into a well she'd been down before, no less terrifying because she recognized the sick stomach-drop and the blind rush of walls flying past as she plummeted. The figure beside her bed was a woman, and she looked strange. She was dressed oddly in shorts and a t shirt. She didn't match what Angel expected: a leering guard leaning in to grab her by the hair. The woman carried a bundle under her arm. What was in it? Why was she dressed like that? 

"I'm Miranda LaSalle," the woman said. "We've met before, when I walked you over to Dr. Cabrese's office. I work with him. I think he told you to expect me." 

Gradually Angel remembered where she was. The night before came back to her. The woman's words sorted themselves. _Dr. Cabrese told you to expect me._ As her fear receded, she became sick at herself. She was still owned by Marchev, her whole mind hijacked by it. Anything could throw her back into terror, where she was less than human, just a petrified animal waiting for her throat to be slit.

She stared at the woman, finally recognizing her from the day she'd come to the language lab. She'd been dressed in something stiff and professional that time. Angel had gotten a vague impression that she was unfriendly. 

"I brought you some clothes and shoes. I think I got your size. Change into them; we're going out." She nodded toward the bathroom. "I'll wait."

Angel edged out of bed and took the clothes. Every movement made her arms hurt. Her chest was sore, too; in fact she felt beaten black and blue. It was a moment before she remembered why. In the bathroom she changed, pulling on a pair of black running pants and an oversized navy sweatshirt. She eased the clothes gingerly over her bruises. The sneakers fit. She did not let herself wonder what lay ahead. 

Outside, the quad was ghostly under the combined light of lamps and rising sun. Miranda's pace was quick and Angel hustled to keep up. They passed a guard; Miranda nodded to him briefly and then turned up one of the paths that led out of the bowl of the campus, up the hillside into the surrounding woods. Soon they were stepping between trees, and the concrete path turned to gravel that crunched loudly at their feet. A little farther on the gravel turned to packed dirt. Miranda stopped. "Here," she said. The path divided, turning both left and right. "This is the main loop trail," Miranda said. "It's over three miles. It goes all the way around the base. Stay next to me and keep up." 

Miranda took the path to the left, traveling at a brisk trot. Angel stumbled along behind. She was quickly winded, and in the poor light she kept stumbling. In the Kar-Paval she would have run a path like this sure-footed even in the dead of night, stepping high to clear the rough ground. Now her fatigue made her drag so that her toes caught on every root and rock. Her bad hip hurt. After a certain point, the pain reached a plateau of not-quite-misery and her breathing settled into a steady pant. Miranda stayed a foot or two ahead of her. 

"What's the plan?" she gasped, finally. 

"Just, keep up. Also, don't say a word. Dr. Cabrese said I should tell you that specifically. His direct quote: 'Tell her not to say a word. That's how she wants it, and that's how she gets it.' " 

The surroundings grew more visible as the sky lightened. She was gasping raggedly. The path laid itself down under her feet, one jarring step after the next. She had no idea how long they had been going or how long the woman would make her continue. A few times Miranda looked back to say, "Pick it up. Keep up with me." The world pulsed wet and green, wavering around the edges, and the trees bent over them gracefully. Theta was erased. She saw nothing but a screen of leaves and limbs, nothing but bends in the path, and beyond the bends was always more path, more leaves. All her muscles were protesting this treatment, her mind scrambling ahead and hoping for an exit - but there was no way out and no end she could count on. She called on the tricks she had used in the mountains during long watches hunkered in the cold; the same tricks she had called on a million years ago when she rowed for BC. You could endure hardship by narrowing your view only to that which lay before you and blocking out the frame of time and place. She was supposed to be good at enduring. She had been proud of that, once. She was a body with one job to do, one more step to take. And when that was done, one more. 

Miranda veered to the right. Two wooden posts were set in the ground with a clearing beyond. "This way," she said. "Obstacle course." 

A handful of rough structures stood in the clearing. Among them was an A-shaped frame standing fifteen feet high, with wooden cross-pieces for climbing. Farther on she saw something like a balance beam, and beyond that another wooden frame with a cargo net slung over it, near-vertical on one side and sloping gently down the other. Miranda pointed to the far side. "There are more paths that way, deeper in the woods. All this land belongs to the base for another half-mile or so. Then it's all state forest on the other side of the fence." 

She walked to the A-frame and started climbing, her motions efficient and practiced. It looked easy. Angel climbed up after her but the first step was a challenge; the ladder was nearly vertical and to keep herself balanced, she had to cling to the crosspieces with all her strength. By the third rung, she could go no farther. She looked up at Miranda, who had climbed over the top and was descending the other side. She waited like a prisoner at the scaffold, hoping for pardon. 

Miranda swung down, rung by rung, and leaped lightly to the ground. "Stuck? Do one more," she said. 

Angel hesitated. Her arms throbbed with pain. She muttered, "I'll fall." 

"Try." 

There was no question that it was beyond her strength. She hoped that if she waited in her misery, Miranda would tell her to just come down. But Miranda said nothing, and she was getting weaker and more desperate from the effort of hanging on. Finally, she let go with her right arm and tried to propel herself upward. She lost her balance and grabbed the cross-piece again, barely saving herself. There she clung, feeling sick. 

"All right," said Miranda. "This week, three rungs. Next week, four." 

They moved on to the balance beam, which was a round log a foot off the ground. Once again Miranda made it look easy, dashing across like a cat. Angel thought again of the mountains, where she had clambered on ledges and pulled herself over boulders. She had taken her strength for granted back then. Her legs were already aching and rubbery, and when she climbed up on the log she slipped off immediately, making her heart lurch as she barely landed on her feet. She fought back tears, turning away from Miranda in embarrassment. The other woman either didn't notice or was pretending not to. Angel made three more tries at the balance beam, getting no more than halfway across each time. 

"It's like everything else," Miranda said philosophically. "Easier with practice. I'm a West Point grad, so I've been practicing a long time." She led the way out of the clearing and back to the main path, where she struck out again without a backward glance. Angel stood still for a moment, watching her go, but there was no choice but to follow. Her hip throbbed. As she came over the crest of the next small hill her legs buckled under her unexpectedly, so that she struck the dirt and hands and knees. Miranda was out of sight. She had to keep going. 

Eventually she rounded a turn and found Miranda waiting against a tree. "Finished," she said. "Here's the path we started on, that leads back toward your quarters." At her feet was the gravel path. The area looked different in the full light of morning; the magic of dawn had fled the woods. She glimpsed the grass of campus between the gray trunks of the trees. "Dr. Cabrese wants to see you before you go to the language building. We'll have to hurry." 

Miranda remained in the hall outside while Angel entered Cabrese's office and found him behind his desk. He looked her over. She could see herself in his eyes: damp, red-faced, still breathing heavily, so she was aware of her chest rising and falling, the insistent presence of her body. A loose joy, almost euphoria, was singing through her. She had discovered this feeling in high school during the year she ran cross-country, when she used to slip out before sunrise and pound along the dark grim streets of her neighborhood. Coming home, she'd toe off her sneakers at the door and creep past her father's bedroom, ears cocked to any noise from within, then lay her groaning body down on the sofa. She'd hug her secret joy close. The leaden throb in her limbs, the sweat drying on her skin, was proof of her invincibility. Her secret was that she was free and strong, and her every pore was open to the world. 

"This is how it it's going to be," Cabrese said. "Every morning and every evening, Miranda will come for you at your apartment. She'll come tonight as soon as you're back from work. You'll be ready. As for meals: you can still have lunch with Catherine Lund, but from now on, breakfast and dinner will be delivered to your quarters. You won't eat anything else. " 

_Fuck you, telling me what I'll do, what I won't do._ But excitement was like a flame licking at her, trying to catch fire. She wanted what he was offering. She wanted both things: to fight him off, and to throw her heart down at his feet. 

"Tell me about your leg." He nodded toward it. "You're limping worse than usual. Where does it hurt?" 

"It's nothing. It's all right." 

"Sir," he said. 

She stared at him blankly. 

"You address me as 'sir.' Same for everyone else on the base; Ms. Lasalle, too. It's 'sir' or it's 'ma'am.' Understood?" 

She understood. She just couldn't do it.

He came out from behind his desk. "You lost a bet last night when you went 0-for-twenty against me. Are you going to be too frightened to keep your end of the bargain?"

"You think I can't figure out that you're manipulating me?"

"Callahan said you were a smart girl. I'm smart, too. Smarter than you, because it's only taken me a week to figure you out. You keep fighting against your own best interests. But I've jumped through every hoop you've set for me - so trust me now, or admit you're just a coward."

He was smart. Smart and strong, and she loved him for it. "Okay. You win. I'm no coward."

" 'Sir.' "

She straightened. "I'm no coward, sir." 

He nodded, and before her eyes he changed. Now his face was full of compassion, his voice gentle. "Go to your quarters. Breakfast will be waiting on the doorstep. And after work, go straight home and be ready for Miranda. I'll see you twice a week, just like always. Do you have any questions?" 

The way he was looking at her touched a place she hadn't known existed where, under all the scar tissue, she was still tender and defenseless. Hope was rising in her like silver in a crucible. It was hot and molten and threatened to crack her open. A primitive swell of devotion overcame her. She couldn't beat it back.

Before she left, he said, "You understand it won't be easy." 

She lifted her chin. "Never said I wanted it easy." 


	21. callahan in sokhrina, road trip north

"Of course Washington understands what's at stake. That's why I'm here in Sokhrina - gathering information, backing you up, trying to make this work for both our countries. Come on, Karel. Why else would they even bother to send me?" 

Simontov didn't soften, but went on glowering from his antique armchair. Callahan could feel a vibration in the air around his friend, or maybe it was something else: a bad smell, a faint bilious color, or a high whine of fear. The usually calm and gracious ambiance of Simontov's luxury apartment was poisoned by its master's mood. Even the footsteps of the cleaning lady, stepping softly in one of the outer rooms, suggested the presence of explosives under the lush carpeting. 

Poor Karel. He was like an aluminum can in a vise, every day being squeezed a little tighter. Callahan had resorted to firm but slippery reassurances in his bid to keep the man from buckling under pressure. So far, it was working, because Karel needed him and valued his friendship too much to sour it with angry demands. Sooner or later, though, he would have to stop dancing and offer up concrete proof of America's good intentions. Even a friend as needy as Karel could only be strung along for a finite amount of time, before pride or other pressures on him made him implode. 

Their relationship had unfolded slowly. Callahan had worked on Karel in a steady, quiet way, and gradually his old pal had dropped his affected swagger of supremacy and reverted to the soft-spoken, careful man Callahan remembered. He had not changed much in the intervening years. He retained his liking for quiet pursuits like gardening and architecture. He spoke shyly about his new passion for birdwatching, and showed off a notebook of bird sketches that he'd made at the new country home. As far as Callahan could tell, the drawings were very good - but when he praised them Karel reddened and snatched the notebook back. "No, no. They're nothing; just rough sketches. I have to practice." Callahan could see the thought he didn't voice: that he wished he were at the country home now, sitting at a window sketching sparrows against the curving hills. He was not happy to be in the big office in the parliament building in the capital, trying to establish a base of power on treacherous ground. 

Callahan had quickly seen a straight road into Karel's affections. He had advantages: he was an old friend who had known and liked the minister of the interior before he became grand and subject to false flatterers. He knew the man's temperament; and he was an outsider with no hand in the vicious politics of Sokhrina. He could be the trustworthy companion that Karel could find nowhere else. Callahan worked these angles. He was subdued and loyal. He shored up Karel's confidence with covert flattery. He read up on local bird life and asked questions that were intelligent enough to delight his friend and give him a chance to show off his knowledge. He confessed fumblingly, one evening, that he had fallen on hard times recently: he had had political problems in Washington and was struggling to get back into the good graces of his boss. Karel opened to him cautiously at first, but then eagerly. He had always been something of a lonely figure, but his position had recently accentuated his isolation. His closest companion was his wife, whom he spoke of in wistful romantic terms. When she came for visits to the capital he spent every free moment with her and then was plunged into morose darkness when she left. "She's my life," he'd mutter to Callahan. "She and the children. Of course I can't let her know that, or she'd peck the flesh from my bones." 

"I'm sure she doesn't have a clue," Callahan said slyly. Karel gave him a sharp annoyed look. Then he laughed. 

"She's got me by the balls; it's true. And here I could fuck anyone in Arbeztan. Power is wasted on me, clearly."

Unlike Azor, who liked to go out at night with a raucous entourage, Karel was most content to stay home. They met in private - sometimes at the Liliane before its official hour of opening, and sometimes at Karel's apartment or even at Callahan's. The security detail was discreet and stayed out from underfoot. Callahan, for his part, was just as glad Karel didn't pressure him to go out into the public eye. He didn't want to appear in press photos: the returning American, whispering once more in the ear of the new leader. 

Today, Karel was more wound up than usual. He had arranged for Callahan to meet with a group of senior military advisors that morning. Apparently they had reported to him that the meeting had gone exceptionally well. As a result, Karel had gotten his hopes up higher than Callahan intended. 

"Kick your colleagues in their fat asses and make them move on this, Jamie. You're the only one I trust. Tell them that if they act now to help me cleanse the mountains, the mining treaty can be signed by December. I'm a man of my word; you know that. Tell them." 

It was a nice thought: the two of them drinking _viriri_ together in December at the Liliane, toasting what they'd accomplished as two grizzled patriots advancing the cause of their countries. In a way, he had a lot more in common with Karel than he had with Azor. Azor had ridden the crest of power effortlessly, whereas he and Karel were average men trying to make good against a landscape tilted against them.

Karel pressed him. "Airstrikes. How hard is that? Fly over and blast the caves they hide in." 

"That would be easy, you're right - except that we can't hit what we can't see. Your military leaders told me today that have almost no information about the geography of the caves and how they're being used. They aren't even sure whether the main caves are under tree cover or at higher altitude. Another issue we discussed is the supply route for the separatists' weapons. Again, they have little information about who the sellers are and how weapons and ammunition are being smuggled up into the heights. What's needed is more intelligence on the ground. You must have some Karth in place in the mountains, at least on the low slopes, who are loyal to your military?" 

"A few, I'm told, But none that are any great help." 

"I imagine plenty of Karth have passed through the GC prison complex. That is usually where loyal recruits are obtained. Is there no such program?"

He hid his impatience. Either Simontov was being coy or he was out of the loop - or his military and security forces were incompetent. The Karth cities of the lower slopes were linked to the rest of Arbeztan by trade, if by nothing else. Karth businessmen and local governors should not be hard to turn. They were within easy striking distance of Arbezi military and they had plenty to lose - their business licenses, their livelihood, their freedom, their lives. 

"I'll look into it," Simontov promised. "What about Azor's assassin. Has he told you anything?" 

"He's young." 

"Meaning what?" 

"Meaning, the terrorists recruited a local boy and sent him off to martyr himself. It's not likely that he knows anything about anything. But we continue to work on him." 

The meeting with the military advisors had been illuminating. Callahan had hidden his shock over the grim statistics: in the year after the official end of the war, the Arbezi military had kept a heavy presence in the mountains but had lost hundreds of Arbezi soldiers doing so. Patrols no longer went higher than the foothills. "It's a lawless country up there," snorted a senior infantry commander as he spread a map over a table and indicated two-thirds of the Karth region with a sweep of his thumb. "Those dogs live to kill; it's all they know. So we've decided to stay clear and let them kill each other instead." Effectively, that meant that the upper mountains were self-governing; for all practical purposes, the Karth separatists had more or less won the independence they'd been fighting for. Of course they wouldn't see it that way.

Karel sniffed. "American technology should be able to track the movements of the guerrillas from satellite. If you can see how they get their weapons supply, you can strangle them. And if you can knock out their leaders from the air, the others will back down." 

"You know that's not how guerrilla movements fall. Jaro Kozlan's death may just inspire other young men to take up the battle in his name. He's only the current incarnation of the dream of deliverance." 

"Maybe. But if I can show my citizens the head of Jaro Kozlan on a plate, it will secure my position. And once I'm secure, I'll have the power to give America its mines. Then you can bring in your engineers and build roads into the mountains. You can bring ten thousand soldiers to guard the roads. There will be government contracts for the companies you favor. And there will be riches under the ground - enough for all of you and all of us. There will be an Arbezi presence, an American presence, up in the wild country, and the savages will gradually be brought into the current century. There will also be jobs in the mining company for those Karth who want to work and improve their lives instead of butchering civilians. Maybe that will be the death knell of Karth barbarism: the local people will wise up and decide they don't want to damage their main employer. They'll learn to want what the rest of the civilized world wants: a good school for the children, a bigger television than the neighbor's. They'll realize that what we're offering is a better life." 

Was Karel right? Callahan wasn't sure. It was probably true that some Karth would abandon the dream of autonomy in favor of good relations with the lowlanders and a steady paycheck. But rebel leaders like Kozlan would only be threatened by that. Guerilla leaders got their power and prestige by declaring themselves men of courage and fighters for liberty. They were never eager for peace because in peace they would be demoted to average men. That was why rebel leaders could rarely be bargained with. They never wanted to actually win their wars. He remembered Koslan as he had been at Marchev: a man of iron will and burning rage; an admirable man and the kind who could inspire blind loyalty. Such a man would enjoy his position too much and make the most of it. Even if the mines brought riches to every Karth, Koslan would preach hatred and vengeance. He would call the Karth miners slaves of a foreign master and point out that while they did the hard and dangerous work, the Arbezi enemy got rich in safety. He would continue to lure youngsters into sabotage and martyrdom. And so the mine's security forces, both American and Arbezi, would be harsh and suspicious of their Karth workers. Humiliations and grievances would escalate.

The silver lining though, would be the opportunities for American companies. Not just the mining company that got the bid, but the private security companies that would be employed to keep the peace. Several decades of war had created a healthy subculture of young American men who knew their way around weapons and would happily put their skills to use for pay way above what they'd gotten in the military. Karel hadn't been exaggerating much when he spoke of ten thousand soldiers to guard the roads. 

All in all, the mines would be a good thing for America. That was where Callahan's interests stopped. He was all in favor of peace on earth - but at the end of the day, he was a company man. 

"You make an eloquent case," he said. "Please understand: I would love to settle this right here. But it's what I've been telling you from the beginning. I was told before I left that there could be no decision until I return home next week and present my findings to the big shots in person. I'll do everything in my power to sway them. You and I agree on what's best. I'm confident I can make them see it."

Karel exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. "Jesus," he muttered. A shiver passed through him. When he opened his eyes, he changed the subject abruptly. "Let me ask you a more important question, because I can't think about this nightmare another minute. Tell me: how is gout treated in America? My wife suffers, and her doctor is worse than useless." 

.

That night, he called Theresa. He was happy, smiling before she picked up. This was all so familiar, the phone call from a faroff posting, the knowledge that he could tell her almost nothing about his work but that she would be able to read plenty in his tone, and would cheer his success. "It's been good," he told her. "Like coming home to my real career. But you're still my real home, and I can't wait to be back and see you again." Quentin, too, he was eager to see. He was eager for all the meetings in Washington that would follow his return. He would be the prodigal son.

He told her stories - about the men at Clari's kiosk and the sights around town and how much he missed her. She laughed softly; the sound of it made him crazy with longing for the feel of her. Imagine if he got reinstated and she came with him to his next posting. He could have the work he loved and come home to the woman he loved. When he had a free evening they'd go out to dinner. Anytime things got rocky, any day that didn't go quite right, she'd be there waiting at the end of it. He'd have home-cooked meals and he'd enjoy the sight of her across the table and they'd talk politics and she'd make him laugh and he'd tap her brain for all the crazy things she knew. He could have her curled beside him at night. He could kiss her goodbye in the morning. 

"How's your father?" he asked abruptly. 

"Dear old dad. Dearer than ever, in his inimitable way." There was a chilly edge to her tone. Callahan surmised she had seen him recently and things hadn't gone well and she didn't want to discuss it.

"Random question: Does he have gout?"

"Random indeed. No, he doesn't."

"What do you know about gout? Anything?"

"I know all I've ever needed to know. It's not a huge feature in my life. Why?"

"Reasons. Come on, genius. Give me the crash course."

"Gout." She paused. He could imagine her touching a sculpted fingertip to the center of her forehead, a habit she had while concentrating her thoughts into a single white-hot beam. "It's a joint disease. It's caused by a metabolic derangement that results in crystals of some kind being deposited in the joint fluid. Painful swelling results. In the Middle Ages it was called a disease of the rich, as I remember. It was linked to consumption of rich foods like wine and meat, that the poor couldn't afford. It most typically occurs at the base of the great toe. It's chronic illness marked by flares and remissions." 

He grinned. She was magnificent. "What about treatments?"

"Lay off wine and red meat. I'm not a doctor, Jamie. I'm getting sick of playing one for Dad." 

"Well, all right." He realized he hadn't asked what she'd been doing in the week since they last talked. He didn't have time for that now, since he'd need to get hold of someone in Research who could tell him about gout, and it was nearing five pm on the east coast. Research didn't stay late. "You've been a huge help already. I miss you. And I love you."

"You'll love the home when you come back. I'm putting the finishing touches on it this weekend."

"I'm sure I will. And if I don't, I'll be too smart to admit it."

"Just as good." Her soft laugh moved through the phone lines and brushed his cheek.

He called Research and got his question in under the wire. The voice on the phone was young and female. Angel, he thought. What was she doing now? He had tried to keep her out of his head because he was worried about her, and helpless to do anything for her as he was away. He suspected something might have gone wrong by now. She might be a quivering heap of nerves on the edge of a breakdown. She might have already failed and been sent back to Boston. She might be blaming him for abandoning her. And there was no way to know.

Bullshit. He could call her. Fuck Cabrese if he had a problem with that. No lines were being crossed. He was making a call from a far continent, and there was no damn company law against it.

The operator at Theta asked him to repeat her name. He spelled it. "She works in Cultural Studies."

"There's no listing under that name." 

"Okay, but she lives on campus too. Building 42, Suite A. Can you look up the number attached to that suite?" 

"I'm checking the residential listing, but there's no Morjo there, either. Sorry, sir."

He hung up. It wasn't surprising she wasn't listed in Cultural Studies, since she probably didn't have her own own office and for a six-month consulting job the operator might not be informed of her existence. But she should certainly be listed as an on-campus resident. His students rotated through for as little as four months sometimes, and they were listed in the directory by building and dorm room. Was it an oversight becuase her arrival had been arranged through back channels, or was Cabrese playing games to keep him at bay?

It was nearing six at Theta. She was in that apartment by herself, trembling and twitching. 

.

He called Karel the next morning and gave him a rundown of gout therapies. Most of them were known to Karel, but Research had also passed on the name of a medicine in development at a French pharmacy and a clinical trial at Vandy using a combination of mild chemotherapy drugs. Then he told his friend he was going out of town. "I'd like to do some exploring, maybe see some of the old haunts. I've barely been out of Sokhrina in five weeks. You may be a prisoner of duty, but I am a free man."

"Go to hell, free man. Have you decided where you're going? I'd recommend the south coast. There's nothing like it at this time of year."

Callahan drove north. The plains stretched for miles, interrupted by the occasional line of tree-crowned hills. As hours passed, he entered rolling countryside and the horizon changed: between distant grass and sky there appeared a dark jagged line that grew more distinct as he got closer. He could make out the clusters of upstabbing fingers, bare and bald above the trees. He had seen the Kar-Paval mountains at a distance from Marchev but had never seen them up close. It was near evening when he took the exit to Vuro.

The city was poor; that was his first and last impression. Manzari was spoken everywhere, and his ears perked up at the sound of it. He could read it fluiently but making out the spoken words was less easy for him. The signs were in Arbezi and when he sat in a restaurant, the waiter addressed him in Arbezi. He shook his head and answered in English. "Sorry, I don't understand. Do you speak English?" He might look Arbezi to local eyes - a well-groomed stranger in a fine car, throwing money around - but he guessed he'd get less hostility as a tourist.

Dinner was good. Afterwards he walked around the center of the city, then found a downtown inn. The desk clerk gave him directions on how to enter the mountains. "You're a climber?" he asked in good English, looking somewhat perplexedly at Callahan's suit. 

"A geologist, actually, from the University of West Virginia. I'm interested in granite cliffs made during the Permian deformation. The Kar-Paval is famous for them but they are not much studied. It's a fascinating region.."

"You are here with your university. You have assistants coming? We will have rooms for them as well. Excellent rates."

"Unfortunately it's just a preliminary trip for me alone. I'm hoping to find a guide who can show me the trails. Would you have any recommendations as to who I can talk to?" He brought out his wallet, and the the hotel clerk smiled and made a phone call. The next morning a jeep pulled into the parking lot of the inn and a middle aged man got out and entered the lobby where Callahan was waiting. He was dark-complected like a typical Manzari. He thrust out a calloused hand. "I am Amdar Mantiza. Where you want to go?" he asked. "I take you anywhere. Full day guide, hundred dollars."

The price seemed slightly outrageous, but Callahan was playing an American rube. He feigned surprise but quickly backed down. "All right, but that's all the money I have and there's no way I can get more. I will have to return to Sokhrina tonight to return the car to the friend who lent it to me. Can you make sure I am back at this inn by six?" The man grunted assent and Callahan made a show of going out to his car and returning with a wallet that exactly a hundred and six dollars in it. He shook his head sadly. "This cuts my trip short," he muttered again. Hopefully the charade would be enough to keep him from being shaken down by Amdar Mantiza, or beaten by friends that might lie in wait along some mountain path. For good measure he added, "I hope to be back in a month, with my assistants. We'll need a guide then, for longer than just a day." Money changed hands. The two set off up the mountainside in Amdar's jeep.

The man drove him up twisted roads that were paved but pocked, taking the turns too fast, giving sidelong glances at his passenger as if hoping he'd be impressed. The downside of playing American was that he was limited to Amdar's English. "You want city, you want mountain?" he asked. "I take you Tamar, nice city, good food, good restaurant."

Tamar was the largest of the Karth foothill cities, devastated by bombardment during the war, with losses rivaling Vuro's. All leadership positions from the mayor to the police force were now Arbezi. It was said that young men had been rounded up by the hundreds by paramilitary gangs and shot in the forests. He didn't really want to see Tamar. 

"No, please. The mountains. The paths to the top. Big rocks, cliffs. How high does the road go?" He pointed upward.

"Ah, mountains. Okay. We going up mountains." Amdar smirked and wrenched the wheel around a hairpin turn. Callahan fought the desire to hang on to the door handle. The mountain rose on their left, and to their right the forested land dropped away sharply. A stream glinted below. The topography could have been West Virginia but the trees and bushes were all wrong, the dead leaves yellow instead of earthen-brown, and a snakelike vine crawling up many of the trunks. They came to a place where the road divided in two: becoming dirt and rising onward, or staying paved and turning to continue on the level. "Tamar that way," Amdar pointed, lighting a cigarette with his left hand. He took the dirt road, slowing just a fraction, and they jounced on. A bare stretch of black cliff was visible above them, stubby trees above and below it. Far beyond, he could see patches were there were no trees, only grass in undulating ripples between rocky spines, and a little cluster of stone houses. 

"Up there," he pointed. "Does anyone live there? Can we get to it?"

"Tojbjar village," Amdar said, flicking ash out the window. "No restaurant, no store. Sheep people."

'Do you know a town called Damrot?"

"Damrot is far. Many mountains north - fifty, eighty miles of driving. On the east side of the knife." He took his right hand off the wheel to make a staccato movement, up-down, illustrating "knife". The high peaks, Callahan understood. "You want Damrot, you go back down, south of Vuro, road to the east, then north, north past Livra, you keep going. Somewhere you find road up the slopes. Bad roads in the north. You know Damrot? High village, nothing but Karth go there." 

"Someone in Vuro mentioned it. Said there had been fossil finds there that might interest me. What about Nevsanek?"

Amdar laughed, showing brown teeth. "Damrot, Tojbjar, Nevsanek. No difference. Farmers, sheep people. Sheep wool, sheep milk, sheep meat. Even the people have brains like sheep." The jeep was now bouncing dangerously, pebbles spitting under the tires. He said slyly, "You are scared? Want Tojbjar still? Many more turns to Tojbjar."

Callahan regretted his request. Amdar clearly enjoyed driving like a madman and trying to get a reaction out of him. With his manhood at stake, he nodded grimly. "Of course. Tojbjar."

"You like sheep," said Amdar with a smirk of malice.

Eventually they reached their destination. The road turned inward between two rocky spines, where the ground gave way to tilting grasslands that arched upward around the edges. There were no trees here, though farther up the slopes, beyond the next ridge, more forest blanketed the mountains. Amdar parked in a rutted expanse of dirt and they got out. It was colder than Callahan expected, and a gusting breeze lifted the hair at his neck. Amdar said, "I'll get you food. You are hungry." Without leaving Callahan time to argue, he strode off toward the nearest of the stone cottages and stopped at the door. Switching to Manzar, he shouted, "Who is home? Lady? I'm Amdar, up from Vuro. Son of Nuzin Hamerit. I have brought a man, American, who will pay you for food."

The door was made of strips of wood and had a large crack running up from the bottom, wide enough to insert a finger at its base. Amdar pounded with violent heedlessness. "Money, I said. An American with dollars." 

A woman appeared, holding the door open only a few inches. She had a lined face but Callahan guessed she was younger than she looked. Something like a kerchief covered her hair. He moved into her line of sight and smiled with exaggerated politeness. "Hello, ma'am." To Amdar he said, "Tell her to let us in. I want to see inside." 

Amdar told the woman, "He will pay to step inside. Make him happy. Give him bread and _luchretju_ scraps; whatever you have. He's American; he wants a demonstration. A movie." He used the word _film_ with the long Manzari "i" - _feel'm_. The woman gave him a hard look, then grunted and stepped aside.

"She has delicious lunch for you," Amdar said. Inside the cottage it was dim, with a single small window giving light into the room they stood in, which must be the kitchen. He made out a wooden counter , objects on hooks on the wall, something that must be a stove for wood or coal. The smell of food was in the place: onions and charred meat and a smell he associated with campfires. The woman put a slab of bread in his hand. It was long like Italian bread, cut lengthwise, and it warmed his fingers. She crossed to the stove, wrapped her hand in a cloth and took from inside it a heavy pan, then with metal tongs she picked out two long blackened strips of what had to be the roast cheese. She motioned to him to hold out the bread, and laid the dangling cheese strips on it in a practiced motion. Then she pushed a clay bowl toward him, with white powder inside. He looked at Amdar questioningly. 

"Karth special lunch. Roast cheese, bread with onion." He motioned to the bowl and mimed pinching and sprinkling. "Salt for the cheese." 

Callahan took a bite. Smoky cream melted on his tongue and went down easy, leaving a peppery burn. He looked at the woman with surprise. After a career of eating everything, everywhere, he was taken aback to discover a new taste in the world. 

He looked around surreptitiously so as not to be rude. The dark kitchen opened into another room through a wooden door. It was open a few inches and he wanted to see what lay beyond, but thought it would be pushing matters to ask for a tour. The woman put a second loaf down beside the first, split expertly, laden with more strips of cheese than the first. He thanked her profusely in English, but she didn't answer or look at him. The sound of his own chewing was loud in his ears. Finally, when he was nearly done, the woman spoke to Amdar, a single Manzari word between her teeth. "The money." 

"Let's step out," Amdar said to Callahan in English, taking his elbow and steering him outside. The sun seared the air like a bright glaze. "She says, five dollar for special lunch. She gave you _luchretju_ , very special, for an American guest." The smile came out again, and he put out his hand. "These are poor people. Simple people. Money to keep warm this winter and have food for not hungry."

Callahan recognized what Amdar intended. He would keep the money. He would step inside afterward, but only as theater. He would probably threaten the woman: telling her that if she complained to her husband and made trouble, he'd be back on another day to take his revenge.

Callahan took a slow bite of the bread, chewed, swallowed. "I'd like to pay the lady directly. To show my appreciation for her hospitality. This food, it's really very good."

Amdar's eyes glinted. And Callahan could see that this way would end no better, in fact probably worse for the woman. If he entered the home and put the money in her hand, Amdar would still have the final play. They would get back in the jeep, but before they left, Amdar would pretend he'd left something behind. He'd return to the cottage. When he came out, he would be smiling and Callahan would have to act, the whole drive back, like he didn't know that the woman was lying on the stone floor, dazed and bleeding or dead.

He glanced across the fields. If her husband showed up, it would go differently. Men didn't tangle so easily with other men. But the spread of grass was still empty of life. The black spines of the mountains stood silent and grim.

"On second thought," he said. "Here. Give her six dollars; all I have left." He got the last of his money out of his wallet and passed it to Amdar. At least there was a chance the man would pay her the dollar. 

.

He had planned to spend more time exploring, but now all he wanted was to get away from hsi guide. Soon they were on their way down the winding slope. Callahan opened his window and leaned his head out, making it impossible for Amdar to talk to him. He checked out of the inn as soon as Amdar dropped him off in the parking lot. The same man was behind the desk. His previous friendliness evaporated when Callahan returned the room key. "Leaving?" he muttered.

"I have to. I'll look forward to returning with my assistants - maybe next season, when I have money again. All the cash my university gave me, I had to pay to the guide you found me. He charged me a hundred and six dollars American. Too bad. That left me with nothing, though I would have liked to stay here another night." He left quickly after that. At least Amdar would face a reckoning of some kind, assuming the desk clerk had the power to challenge.

The crabbed face of the village woman stayed with him as he drove. IAngel had lived in a village like that, maybe. She had probably carried water and wood and made strips of blackened cheese with salt. It was impossible to imagine.

There were still several hours left in the day and he did not go straight back to Sokhrina. He turned a bit west, following the road signs toward the small town of Linar but then skirting it by turning left where the roads diverged. He had a map in his mind. He passed a farmhouse with two stone chimneys and a tilted grain storage building standing alongside, and his heart thudded with recognition. Yes: this was the way. He had traveled this road back and forth several times. He used to go to Linar sometimes during the excavations, when human remains were being lifted out of the pits by hand and laid in rows on plastic tarps, tagged and photographed while awaiting removal in a refrigerated truck. He had tried to take Angel there after she gained strength, but she never wanted to leave Marchev; in fact she hardly ever left the infirmary unless he made her walk with him. Even the last day, when the arrangements for her repatriation were finally in place and the plane waited at the airfield to get them both out of there, she looked towards the truck and driver and seemed more frightened than eager for freedom.

There were empty fields on both sides. That was how he remembered things. He took a right at the next road crossing. Not much farther, now. Another five minutes and then he'd see what remained of Angel's nightmare. Maybe when he saw her at last back at Theta, she'd like to hear about the place. It would bind them together. He'd feel her out gently, find out if she wanted to know or if the mention of Marchev would just do her harm.

Around the next bend the road turned up. He slowed down as he crested the hill.

The barbed wire fencing was gone and so were the cluster of squat cinderblock buildings that had formed the main guard bunker and the rest of the complex: prison, outhouses, the food preparation building which also held the guards' canteen. He recognized no landmarks. He could not remember where the gate had been, where the pits had been. The trees that had encroached were still there, but the boundary between mud and forest looked different. A number of earth-moving vehicles were parked in the rutted field beside a few hillocks of dirt, stones and rubble. Four men were standing in a cluster outside a bulldozer. Callahan pulled off the road and got out to talk to them. As he slammed his car door, one of the men looked over without interest, then tossed down a cigarette and ground it under his heel.

Callahan greeted them in Arbezi. "Excuse me. I'm touring sites for the US embassy, checking materials use and water reclamation in advance of our next consulate construction project. Who's your employer?" He brought out his State Department ID and held it up. "No need to worry; I'm not with the licensing bureau. I just have a few questions."

The workers answered his questions, but they didn't know much, or care much, about what they were building. They had been on the site for two months. They worked for a local contractor. "It's going to be an office park," said one. He used the English word, pronouncing it with an Arbezi twist: _ovizbark_.

"What was here before?" He nodded toward the piles of rubble. He could make out hunks of broken cinderblock. "Did you men do any demolition to start off with?"

The man who had been smoking spoke for the first time. "Nothing here when we came," he said. "No demolition. Just farmland. Foundation of a storage building, maybe. That's all." He spoke heavily, decisively, like each word was a cement block he was setting firmly into place.

"Who owns the land?" Callahan persisted. "The office park is being built by who? Government building?"

The man shrugged. Then he rounded on the others. "Get back to it," he said. "That's enough of a break." One of the other men grunted and climbed up into the dozer. The other three loped across the rutted field. Callahan stared after them for a few minutes. Then he bent and pried up a lump of clotted earth. It was slightly damp and held together in his palm. He sniffed it. The stink that had sickened him four years ago, the stink that meant Marchev to him, and murder and his own complicity, stink of putrid meat under the ground and buried horrors, was gone. The bodies had been taken from the pits by the international team of investigators. He had never asked where they had been taken. It could not have been anywhere under Arbezi control, and at war's end it was unlikely that any Manzari-staffed college had the facilities to conduct the work of identifying the dead. Maybe the remains had been removed to a university lab in a neutral country. Meanwhile, here where the camp had stood, the government had probably razed the buildings themselves and carted off the evidence years ago, leaving only a benign field. Insects and local creatures had devoured the remaining scraps of flesh beneath the soil. Rain and melted snow had leached through the earth for four years, carrying away the blood and rotting the clothes of the victims. Over the trampled earth the wind moved restlessly and carried away the smell of rot.

He pressed the earth between his hands. He thought of putting it into his car and taking it home. What would he do with it: show Angel? Keep it as, as what? The earth of Marchev was either a reminder of his guilt, or evidence that even crimes against humanity don't matter much. The land had moved on. So had all of Arbeztan. Even Vuro, the Manzar city that had been the brutal flashpoint of the war, was a place of inns and businessmen and shirtless teens laughing by the railroad tracks. He and Theresa had moved on, too. Even Angel was free of Marchev - she had a good job thanks to him, and the change of scenery would help her put Marchev behind her.

He rubbed the soil between his hands, hard, grinding it so it crumbled into a fall of particles, and what was left, the hard crystals and sand grains and, maybe, pulverized tooth and bone, ground into his skin. When all the particles were gone, he stared at his palms. They were dirt-darkened, the creases marked in black. They smarted. He bent his head and muttered, "God forgive me" - a favored expression of his mother, and one that covered every transgression. Then he got back in the car and drove south, reaching his apartment well after dark.


	22. angel:  becoming.  becoming... something

She had swampish dreams. In the center of them, a hard kernel drew together every morning, rising and rising until it pulled free of the surrounding muddy chaos and declared itself loudly, in the repeating blare of the alarm clock that dragged her forward into the waiting dawn. Every morning, she was disoriented. In the dark she fumbled out of bed, exhausted confusion giving way to aching dread. She resented that the night was already over when she'd barely had time to appreciate it. Her body went into reluctant motion. Her sinews groaned as she rolled to the edge of the bed and bent painfully to find her socks and sneakers. The sneakers were always damp. She went outside still rubbing her eyes, and slumped against her front door and waited. Miranda's footsteps made themselves known before her outline coalesced out of the darkness as if sifted from particles of the night. Angel would go down her steps and fall in alongside Miranda without a word. Together they would turn up the rise to the edge of the green grass bowl of Theta, and slip between the trees. 

She pounded along the loop trail at Miranda's heels. She got used to it: to struggling, enduring, driving herself on. There was a Rocky Balboa glory to it, even though she more or less hated every step.

It was hard to tell if she was getting stronger, because nothing got any easier. Miranda stepped up the pace as weeks went by so she was always lagging and always getting yelled it. "Pick it up!" They stopped at the obstacle course every morning and evening. Angel hated that, too, but at least it was a break from the wearying monotony of pounding down the path.

As the first weeks passed, her dread lessened. She wasn't failing. It wasn't impossible; it was a challenge and she was answering it. A creeping excitement entered her as she awoke to the forgotten thrill of sneaking out in the dark while the unknowing world slept. She was proud of the miles that ground away under her feet, and the dull persistent heat of fatigue. The evenings and mornings rolled into each other; she couldn't keep the days straight anymore but it didn't matter because there were no weekends, no days off. After three weeks, she was able to pull herself up to the fourth step on the rope ladder. Miranda, who rarely spoke except to issue terse instructions, watched from below. "Good job. Now do the next one." 

After Miranda set her free each morning, she was slung forward like an arrow through the day. She had only a few rushed minutes for breakfast, shower, dressing, shoving back her hair. On the way out, she'd checked her shirt for the visitor's pass, slam out the door, and cross the quad at a fast lope. Catherine Lund was always at work ahead of her, shining elegantly against the cool white walls and bookshelves and sleek rows of computers. _"Tornus jaide"_ , she'd say - "sun's high." It was the rough peasant greeting used in by Karth of the upper mountains. 

Cath was becoming more fluent. She had graduated from canned phrases and was becoming able to carry on conversations in a rollicking, childish Karthic that she mixed with English. She would start with a simple sentence, and Angel would answer. Then they would bat the conversation back and forth, enlarging on it and venturing into more sophisticated constructions. Cath made plenty of mistakes, some of them hilarious, but Angel's corrections mostly stuck with her. She was improving quickly. Without discussing it, they shifted more and more into Karthic as their primary language. English was the glue that filled the cracks, but those cracks shrank day by day. Even when the work was tiresome and repetitive, Cath's enthusiasm persisted and her appreciation made Angel feel warm. "When they gave me this assignment I had no idea how it would work out, but it's been a delight. I couldn't ask for a better teacher." 

Then at five sharp, she shot out the door for home. She had only ten minutes to pour herself back into the damp running clothes she had peeled off that morning. Miranda was never late.

Between the moment she rose from bed and the minute she fell back into it, she had no time for her own thoughts. Only at night did her mind sometimes wander into the past. Sometimes Marchev or the mountains would swell around her, buckling in the walls of her bedroom. It was different from the flashes of horror she used to suffer in Boston. Here, she knew where she was, didn't lose herself, knew the past was past - but still her mind carried her into moments she didn't want to remember, and sometimes she got trapped there and couldn't pull herself out. There were whole nights when she paced and couldn't lie down, or lay rigid or writhing, digging her nails into her skin. Sometimes she balled her sheets against her mouth and moaned into them. But morning would come and save her. Miranda would be at her door and there was no more time to think. She had no decisions to make.

The long days and lack of sleep kept her mind as weary as her body. Small tasks took all her concentration. Standing at the bottom of the curving stairs to the upper quad, she'd mass her will before taking the first step upward against the protests of her aching legs. Reaching the top was an act of heroism.

It struck her one evening as she laced up her sneakers, that without realizing it, she had become happy.

.

One evening, Miranda led her off the path to the foot of a rocky outcropping, eight or ten feet high. "I scouted this one out for you," Miranda said. "Watch, and I'll show you where the holds are." She put the toe of one shoe up on a knob and launched herself upward with ease. "See this handhold? Next, move your right foot over to here." She moved laterally, staying only a couple feet off the ground and traversing the rock face like a monkey. Then it was Angel's turn. She took hold of the rock and placed the toe of her sneaker where Miranda showed her and was able to boost herself off the ground, but she could get no farther. The first step to the right required more strength and reach than she had. She wavered, trying repeatedly to get her right foot to the next step, then retreating, all while her arms grew fatigued and her fingers stiffened. A million years ago she had scrambled through the mountains of the Kar-Paval - but Marchev had left the fingers of her left hand weakened, and her bad hip limited her reach. Her extra weight was like a cannonball tied to her waist. Miranda finally let her climb back down and led her to the other side of the rock face and showed her another way to climb up. That went a little better - she was able to shuffle a few feet to the left, moving one foot and one hand before getting stuck once again. Her arms trembled as she clung. She was afraid of falling. Even the short distance to the ground would bang her up pretty badly. 

There were boulders to be climbed every morning and evening after that. Some were conquerable. Most were not. Gravity dragged at her like a personal enemy. The skin of her palms was shredded. She hated it, but she didn't complain. Neither Miranda nor the boulders cared about her feelings. 

.

A couple evenings a week Miranda brought her to Dr. Cabrese. She came to him grime-streaked and beaded with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead, her chest heaving. He'd look her over, letting the silence draw out, opening the raw center of her where she had no defense against him. 

"Any injuries?" he'd say at last. 

"No, sir." 

"Anything on your mind?" 

"No, sir." 

He'd look at her while her strange fear mounted, her pulse got louder; her breath came faster. His nearness was all it took to crack her open along her fault lines. Then, gradually, her fear would lessen. He was careful with her. "All right," he'd say. "Dismissed."

He never asked anything else, and she never volunteered anything. The deep water between them remained unstirred. His penetrating gaze was dangerous but she craved it. She looked forward to seeing him. It was only for five minutes but in those five minutes were the concentrated emotions she didn't feel anywhere else. He turned her inside out. 

"The notebook I gave you," he said. "Are you using it?" She shook her head. "Use it tonight."

She took it out that night and stared at the first page. She stared for a long time. Then she put a pen against it. 

_I promised_

She gripped the pen tighter. 

_I promised Carana_

It had to be told. She'd be dead someday - could die tomorrow, even, and Carana's parents would never know what happened to their daughter. Even though Angel had been too fucking chickenshit to face them, to tell the truth, to tell Jamie or the government men or anyone, at least she should do this. So there'd be a record. And maybe someday she'd confess out loud.

_I promised Carana we'd be back in Prague before spring break was over._

.

She was always hungry. The meals they gave her, breakfast and supper, were never quite enough. At sunset when Miranda left her, supper was always waiting just outside her door inside a cardboard box. She'd been given a microwave, but sometimes it seemed like too much effort to use it. She ate with her fingers. Her body was shrinking, retreating inward from its former margins. She had started using safety pins to hold in the waists of her skirts and her running pants. She thought of getting different clothes - getting off the base, maybe, and into some nearly city where they'd have real stores - but she didn't have the energy to care. She fell into bed right after eating. Usually she slept in her clothes, unless she'd been soaked in rain, and then she stripped them off and slept in nothing. There was a simple physical joy in just lying down and letting her weary limbs be borne up by the mattress. She ached like she'd been pounded by a mallet. 

They gave her Sunday afternoons off because that was when Cath went to church. Sometimes she found the energy to drag herself to the store by the front gate to get some small item she wanted - shoelaces, safety pins. Usually she bundled up her clothes and went to the coin-op laundry in the basement of C dorm. Mostly, though, she lay in bed. Even on Sunday she had to set her alarm, because there was still Miranda to get up for, and then work from eight to one pm. Miranda and Cath both seemed to take it for granted that work went on every day of the week.

.

Cath brought a stack of books to work. "Do you know any of these? We can tell each other the plots, back and forth. That will help me learn to talk about everything. Here, take your pick." 

Angel picked up the one on top. "I know this one from tenth grade English."

"Me too - at East Trenton High. I'll start." She switched to Karthic. Her accent was not thick anymore, just moderate, with an American flair to her consonants. "Two men travel together," she said. "They are friends."

She used the wrong form for "friends" and Angel corrected her. "Not school-friends. Here, it's _morzet_. Adult friends. Comrades, you'd say in English."

 _Two men travel together. They are friends; they are poor. They are traveling across a dry land to find work. They are saving money to buy land of their own. One of them is strong but not smart. He likes soft things. They find work on the land of a rich man. The strong friend kills a woman by accident. He and his friend run away. They are chased. The one who is the friend of the strong but simple-minded man, he has a gun. They are in the forest. George raises his gun._

.

Her foot slipped while she clung to a vertical rock. She twisted sideways, slamming her knee. Dr. Cabrese noticed. "How's the hip?" 

"It's all right, sir." 

"Your limp is worse." 

"I'll be okay." 

Reaching into a drawer in his desk he pulled out a small white bottle. "Ibuprofen," he said, tossing it to her. "Up to eight per day if you need it. No more than that." 

"Okay. Thanks." 

He looked at her. "Angel," he said at last. She loved hearing her name on his lips, loved how he looked at her as if she were all that mattered. Loved what was between them, so many things unspoken. "Someday you should let someone examine it." 

She swallowed. "It's all right. I'm used to it."

"I know that."

His gaze was steady. 

"There's no point," she told him. "Anyway, it doesn't bother me much."

After a long while he said, "Therapy would help." 

They were both still, but her heart was loud with fear. "Someday," she said. "Maybe." 

.

More and more often at night, memories got their claws into her. The trick was to survive until morning when Miranda would pull her back into sanity. Sometimes she wasn't sure she could hold out that long. She wrapped her arms around herself and curled up whimpering in her bed, terrified of the vast spread of empty air around her. One night she piled all her bed linens onto the floor of the closet and shut herself into the tiny space. Her back fit against the closet's rear wall and with her legs folded up, her arms around her knees, the blanket and sheets and pillows wedged into the air. She rocked, knowing she was acting crazy, glad no one was around to see. Gradually she wound down like a toy with a dying battery. When she opened her eyes some time later, she was confused and knotted in pain and almost too stiff to reach the doorknob. She had to crawl across the floor to drag herself up into her bed. When the alarm roused her from her stupor and she hobbled down the porch steps to join Miranda, she was glad for the no-talking rule. Miranda might notice her swollen, creased face and limping gait, but she'd ask no questions. That was the kindness Dr. Cabrese had done her: he had fixed things so she never had to pretend anything. She just had to obey and keep going.

.

_A man flies a plane in World War Two. His outfit is stationed in Italy. His commanding officers are stupid or ridiculous. If he is crazy, he can be sent home. But if he asks to be sent home, this is evidence that he is not crazy. So he follows orders and drops bombs. He doesn't want to kill and he doesn't want to die._

"A woman dies in that one, too," Angel muttered in English. "Good old Arfy throws her out the window." 

"Say that in Karthic," Cath told her.

"About Arfy?" 

"That whole section. Arfy and the maid."

Angel didn't like telling it. She rendered it stiffly, avoiding words she didn't want to say. "Respected-Mr. Arfu commits a violation against a low-status woman worker who serves him in the hotel. He kills her after. He throws her from a window to protect his honor." She used the suffix on "honor" to convey 'small honor,' which in English would be rendered as "reputation in front of other men." A different suffix was required for "large honor" which could be translated as "self-respect," or the reputation you had in front of God.

.

Sometimes in bed she ran her rough hands over her hipbones gingerly. Her contours were changing. Her bones were rising to the surface. She could take a deep breath and fill her lungs with air that tasted of things warm and green: manicured grass and broadleaved trees that spread out and up as high as they wanted. In the mountains trees were dense but they didn't grow tall; rough winds and poor soil stunted them. In Boston, they were spindly things with wire cages around them on the sidewalk, strangled by concrete. But this was Virginia. 

.

 _A group of men hide in a forest. They are wanted by the local authorities. The leader once hunted on a rich man's land and killed one of his deer for food. Now the band steal from the rich and give to the poor. The know secret ways through the forest. One of them is captured by the enemy, but the others fight and help him escape._

"Among them is a tall man who fights with the branch of a tree, carved into a club," Angel supplied in Karthic. She translated "branch" and "carved" and "club" for Cath, who repeated the words after her. 

Then Cath said in English, "The men hide in a cave. The cave is deep and has a hidden entrance. How would I say that in Karthic?" 

_"Matjel_ for cave. _Matjel ra shojtjani._ I don't think that's where the band hid though. Didn't they have a special tree?"

"Cave. That's how I heard it," said Cath. "In Sherwood Forest. In the side of a rocky hill, as I remember."

She translated. They talked about caves for a while, and Cath asked questions about the caves found in the Kar-Paval, and by the time the day was over Cath knew the words for different caves, the narrow-mouthed ones that led downward, and the shallow kind that kept fighters from being spotted from above. They talked about paths of rock and tree-markings that led through the forest, hairpin turns, rockfalls, sharp drops, gorges; all the words that described her mountains. 

Several afternoons a week, Cath had appointments that that took her away from the language lab, and Angel worked on assignments alone. She was making recordings of herself speaking Karthic now. It was part of a self-study program designed by Cath so that future students at the base could learn the language. "It will serve as a reference for me, too," Cath said. "After you leave."

She didn't want to think of leaving. it was like looking ahead to a moment when she would be pushed off the edge of the flat earth. Dr. Cabrese's words still echoed. _It's a big ocean, hero._

.

On a drizzling day when the rocks were wet and the overhead leaves leaked fat drops, she rebelled. She was clinging to the rock while Miranda shouted instructions. Her hands shook. All at once, her will snapped like a broken elastic, and she climbed down to solid ground. Miranda shouted at her but she turned her back. After a moment Miranda said in a harsh, unnatural voice, "We're finishing the loop." They did. A short while later, with no further word spoken between them, she was led to Dr. Cabrese's office. 

She stood in front of him with her sodden clothes dripping. She had become nervous on the walk over. She'd forgotten that she was already on some kind of probation for fighting the guard. Maybe this would be the last straw when he would take her ID, tell her to pack her few things. She might be at the nearest bus station in thirty minutes, gripping a ticket back to Boston. The idea was terrifying. But it was too late to take anything back. 

He let her wait and suffer. Finally he said, coolly, "You don't like failing." 

Her temper flared; she hated him. He was remote and calm, untouchable. "Yeah. Brilliant," she spat. 

"Getting to the top of a rock isn't what matters. What matters is that you try. That you don't quit." 

He didn't care that she'd been afraid as she clung to the boulder. That she was afraid now. He looked down on her like he was a king on a throne and she was only a subject he barely noticed. She was doing all this for him, and a bromide was all she'd get for it. 

She bared her teeth at him. "Thanks for the cliche. Did you make that up yourself?" Deliberately, in a singsong falsetto voice, she said: "You can't win if you don't try. It's not about the medal, it's about giving your all." She felt nervy - at the wheel of a fast car, reckless and determined, flooring the accelerator and speeding straight for him. She was grinning with savage intent. "That's your wise advice, huh? Seriously. That's really the best you can come up with?" 

He was out from behind his desk. She had a moment of exultation as his fist drew back and she knew she'd get exactly what she wanted. Then her center caved in and she was on the floor gasping. 

"Get up." 

She climbed to her feet and stood hunched, arms crossed over her abdomen, where waves of shock still rolled outward. 

"I expect effort," he said. "Strength. Not quitting, and not tantrums." 

"I've done that. For weeks." She was still gasping. "Twice a day, every fucking day. Maybe you haven't noticed." 

"You want to fight?" He held up his fist. "You want to go back to the gym and do it the hard way again? All right, we can do that. If a beatdown's what you understand, I'm willing. Today. Tomorrow. Any time. That's what you're after? Trying to tempt me into it?" 

Somehow there was still a gulf between them that she couldn't cross. She stepped up to him and threw a punch at his face. He blocked it. Then he knocked her down again and she fell to her hands and knees. Somehow this was best. This was what solved everything. She would stay down on his office floor, vanquished, with tears seeping out of her. She thought about his raised fist. She could imagine what the next punch would feel like when she stood. Then the one after. Did she want that? The angry desperation was leaking out of her as suddenly as it had come. Her face was wet. She leaned her forehead against the floor.

In Boston, she had been dry as stale bread; now she couldn't seem to hold onto her own fluids. She felt his grip close on her upper arm. He hauled her to her feet, then to the sofa, where he made her sit. 

"It's difficult for you." he said. "I told you it would be."

Her tears were rolling now, but she hardly noticed them. This was what she wanted. It was all she wanted: him, paying attention. "I don't know what to do," she muttered. 

"The rules are pretty simple," he said. "I keep them simple for you on purpose. Out there--" and he motioned toward the door, beyond which lay the quad and the spreading forest and the world. "You do your best. And in here? You do your best." 

Was it wrong that this felt so much like love? She wiped her face on her left sleeve, the less muddy one. He got a tissue out of a drawer and handed it to her. "It's supposed to be hard. I told you that before. If it were easy, I'd be doing it wrong. You're getting better. All you have to do is hang on." 

"All right." She cleared her throat. "Yes, sir." 

A soft expression came into his face. "You're so tired," her murmured. He took her hands in his and opened them, looking at her palms. They were torn and blistered and shook from fatigue. His own hands were warm and firm as they cradled hers. "Miranda will walk you home. But first we have to talk about consequences for today. You knew we'd get to that, right?" 

She'd known. 

"You need more practice on the boulders; that's become clear. I'll let Cath Lund know you'll be getting to work later in the morning from now on and leaving earlier." 

It was good to have him set the rules. He made walls all around her, close in, no open spaces to get lost in. It was like the night she'd had to wedge herself into the closet. He had set things right between them and she wouldn't need to figure out the right apology. She wondered what would happen if she stepped into his arms and leaned against his chest. "Yeah, well," she said drily. "Saw that one coming." 

He smiled and laid a weighty hand on her shoulder, just for an instant. "Long road home, Odysseus. Rest tonight. Rest while you can." 

.

_A man is arrested for murder. His jailers work inside a corrupt system. They offer him bribes of better treatment if he will confess._ This was a book Angel didn't know, one Miranda was reading at home and describing to her. It was called Confession, Miranda said - a modern bestseller she'd picked up at a drugstore. The plot concerned a man who may or may not have committed murder, and was being questioned by his jailers who were playing good cop, bad cop with him. _If he confesses, he will be allowed out into the yard. He will be allowed to call his family. If he doesn't comply, he will be put in chains. "Your food will be tasteless," the guards say. "Your blanket will be taken away. Even your mattress. We'll blast loud music into your cell."_

She translated all this. The vocabulary was difficult: _Interrogation, police, cell, threat, sentencing. Punishment, reward, good behavior. Forgiveness, second chance, liberty._ Some of those were words Angel did not know in Karthic. Some of the words came to her instead in Arbezi, because she'd heard them from the guards at Marchev. She stumbled through the conversation while Cath took careful notes in the phonetic alphabet she used. Cath didn't notice anything was wrong, but Angel stayed pained and withdrawn for the rest of the day. Even running with Miranda didn't make her any less upset. That night, in the silence of the apartment, the words returned. 

"Reward for good behavior," the guard had smirked. She lay in her soft bed, a million miles from Marchev, but she couldn't shake the memory. She'd been dragging her bucket down the back hallway of the central building, moving carefully so red water didn't slosh over the side. If you spilled you were punished but if you were too slow, that was bad too. There had been teeth in the Happy Rooms that day, with flesh attached, as well as the usual urine and smears of blood. Sometimes there were worse things. She had put the teeth into the bucket with the bloody washwater. The bucket had to be carried to the back entrance, then out to the pit for dumping. But today the guard was watching. "Good behavior. Very hard worker. For you, a reward. Put down the bucket, girl." 

Angel writhed in bed. Through the window she could hear voices of young men playing a late-night game of Ultimate Frisbee on the upper quad. The guard's weight on top of her, his slobbering kiss, were behind her, but not the stain they left, the stain she'd given herself by complying. She had put down the bucket. It was unbearable to think of. She had lain down for him. And that wasn't all he'd wanted. And she'd done it all. 

She jumped up from the bed. In the kitchen she got out a steak knife. She took her left arm out of its sleeve. She pressed the knife over her biceps and drew a line along the inside of the arm. Pain swooped to the site of the red line on her skin, and her mind rested easier. Redistribution, wasn't it? She could put the pain into a different location. She could drain the burning poison that seethed under her skin. Pressing harder, she drew another line with the knife, drawing blood. She slumped with relief. Better. 

.

Catherine used phonetic symbols to write Karthic. Her hand flew across the page as Angel spoke. "Say it again," she'd say, frowning, going back to erase one strange letter and replace it with another. She was developing a key in which Karthic sounds could be rendered in the standard Latin alphabet. Catherine glowed as the work proceeded. "I can't remember the last time I've had this much fun. Your language is-- it's like discovering a buried symphony from a thousand years ago. A jewel under the earth. But you take it for granted, don't you?" She laughed. "I know. I'm a strange woman with a strange obsession." 

"You like your work," said Angel. She was entranced and mystified by Cath's passion. Karthic was nothing to her. Words were just words. She didn't notice them in her mouth, any more than she noticed her own tongue. 

She made the mistake of singing a couple Karthic songs to Cath during a moment of hilarity. Now Catherine insisted they record those as well. "No way," Angel said. "I don't want my singing being mocked for all posterity." 

"Chicken. You have a decent voice, and I'll sing with you. Teach me the words." They recorded "Vosh Irjindth" - a battle song - and "Ithjoa," which was a nonsense lullaby about a boy who had twenty sheep and named them after mountain peaks. 

.

The knife reassured her. She kept it under her pillow so it was always within reach in the night. The cuts on her left arm were scabbed at the center while fresh red slices moved outward. Infection moved in, and her flesh grew tender and puffy. Some of the cuts oozed pus. She liked having a secret. Dr. Cabrese should have seen through her but he didn't, and that made her furious. Their brief meetings went on, but gaze stopped leveling her. She was no longer in thrall to him. He didn't seem to notice. 

Not all her memories were bad. Once, during her first weeks when she was barely more than the "bomb girl," a joke, Jaro had come on her while she was sitting alone near the edge of a ravine. She had been thinking about how she could never leave the mountains: all roads out were closed to her now. 

Jaro had squatted down beside her and looked into the ravine too. Neither of them said anything. Finally he said, "You're from outside, but you hate like I do. You've got the heart of a Karth woman. Better than most Karth women." 

.

Sometimes she stole a moment in the morning, just before work, to stare at her own face in the bathroom mirror. Her cheeks were hollowing out. She still looked haunted and disturbingly different from the face she used to see. It was as if the blue-black gloom of Marchev lurked like a hidden kingdom behind her irises. The shape of her face, though, looked not so different from the one she'd grown up with. She thought of herself as monstrous and deformed, but when she tilted her head and studied herself from different angles she was baffled because her known hideousness was not visible in the image she saw, framed by dented silver. She had touched her cheeks and made gargoyle faces and seductive smiles at herself, trying to work out the conundrum. 


	23. Journal 4:  friends forever

August 2

The glamour of the TeachPrague job wore off pretty quick. Only the clients stayed glamorous. I'd never been inside homes like that, where the floors were marble and their were stone archways between the rooms. Jason's fees were outrageous, but they paid like it was nothing. They told their friends about TeachPrague and the friends called Jason and our hours got longer. Apparently, if you were rich you wanted your kids to learn English, and if you were very rich you wanted them to learn _American_ English from a private tutor who had the right accent and the latest idioms. Sometimes clients gave us gifts or kava turecka. Mostly we were just the help, always tired and always poor. The stipends came in on the first Monday of every month. Sometimes we lived on noodles for the preceding week.

All the apartments had problems. Ours had exposed wiring in the kitchen and a steady leak in the bathroom ceiling. It was in exactly the wrong place: one foot closer to the wall and it would have dripped into the sink; two feet to the left and it would have plinked into the toilet; a little farther back and it would have been part of the shower. Instead it dripped in our hair when we stood at the mirror doing our makeup. We put a plastic bucket there, which had to be emptied every night. It was always me who did it. One day I got angry and called her a spoiled thoughtless bitch and declared a demi-strike, meaning I was only going to empty it half as often and she was going to mop up the mess when it overflowed. When I came home the next day, she was smirking. There was a new bucket in the bathroom, twice as big as the old one. So I whipped a roll of toilet paper at Carana's head and she shrieked and I chased her out our door and down the stairs, three flights down like we were living in a sitcom, both of us laughing too hard to run and breathe at the same time. So I loved the leaking ceiling and I loved the bucket. Once in blue moon she actually did empty it after that, and I knew she was doing it for me. 

Our hot water went out for weeks at a time. Jason would claim he couldn't get a plumber. A couple of staffers tried to quit in November, and that's when we learned that there was fine print in our contracts: anyone who quit had to pay a huge fine. But they quit anyway and the rest of us had to divide up their clients. I was still happy, even when we had to walk five blocks to Steve and Brian's apartment to take a shower, and even when we started having to work all Saturday and some of Sunday. I had Carana. I never needed anything else. 

It was December when we made our plans for Italy in summer. She was pretty sure her parents would send money. She wanted to see art museums, cathedrals, famous cities. I voted for Pompeii, Sicily, wild spots and volcanoes. "Yeah, but you're a science girl," she said. "We could climb the Leaning Tower and drop balls like Galileo. We'd be walking in the footsteps of history. We could wear wigs with powdered white curls or something. Think of it." 

"Yeah, we could spit off the top to test if gravity still works when you're up high," I said. Carana had seen me spit once, on the way home from a party, and had been amazed and horrified by my hidden talent. "I bet Galileo spat from up there. At least on his trial run, because he didn't want to carry two balls all that way to the top. He was actually wicked lazy. This is a known fact about him." 

She gave me the side-eye. Rome, Pisa, Florence. She was adamant. 

Well, I agreed. Of course I did. I would have gone anywhere she wanted, because anywhere she was would always be more fun than anywhere else. 

January struck. TeachPrague got some new clients for the new semester. One of them was in the neighborhood Carana covered, near the castle. Two sisters: bright little girls, seven or eight years old, quick learners, affectionate. They lived in a grand apartment full of things old and beautiful. "All except the mom," Carana told me. "She's young and beautiful. Dressed to kill." The father did something important in government, she thought: an assistant cabinet minister, something like that. His name was Jiri. __

Carana came home and told me all this after her first lesson to the kids. She was happy with her new client. And if she was happy, I was happy.  



	24. callahan return from arbeztan:  ter, quentin, angel, cabrese

Theresa was waiting near the luggage carousel. Her back was to him. He came up on her quietly, playing an old game, but she turned with a smile. It was the smile he knew, with the crow's feet starting beside her eyes and the two moles on her left cheek. Nothing about her had changed while he'd been gone. "You caught me," he said.

"The tiles on the wall showed your reflection." 

"I knew that, but I didn't think you were paying attention." 

"Ah, silly man. I'm always paying attention. Welcome home."

They kissed, although quickly because Theresa hated to do anything in public. She called it "making a spectacle." Her lips were warm and he was happy, the way airports and reunions always made him happy. Ter had insisted during their early, starry-eyed years that every time they met up somewhere after months apart, they'd forget past arguments and start everything fresh. It never exactly worked out that way, but it was a nice thought. 

"So," she said. She arched a questioning eyebrow. 

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes. It went well."

"You've still got the magic, then."

"Guess I do." He wished he could tell her details of his brilliant tactics, his charm, how he'd learned what Quentin wanted him to learn, and gotten close to Karel and played him along like a fish on the line. "I think it's going to work out."

"For the company, you mean? Or for you personally?"

"Both."

"Well, I don't care about the success of the company, but I'm glad about you. Tell me whatever you can tell me. Was it all like you remember it?"

He picked her up and kissed her again, in spite of her protests. She was light in his arms. "It was beautiful. The only thing missing was you." 

His luggage arrived intact, miraculously. They loaded the bags into a waiting cab, then settled into the back seat together. He reached for her hand. He couldn't stop looking at her. "You would have loved the apartment they gave me," he said. "Big kitchen. Big bed."

"Hmm."

He grinned and ran a finger up the inside of her arm. "Should I say what I'm thinking?"

She frowned and shot a look at the cab driver. Typical Ter. Just once, it would be nice if she tossed propriety to the wind. 

The changes to the house caught him by surprise. As the cab drew up, he saw that the front yard had been landscaped strangely. The neat shrubs he expected were gone, replaced by irregular spikes of tall grass and spreading shrubs, weathered boulders and strewn gravel. It gave the impression of a japanese garden that had grown wild. He was less taken aback by the kitchen, where dark stone counters gleamed at him. That, at least, was something they'd discussed. But the entire living room and first-floor office had changed their colors and the furniture was shifted around.

He rounded on her. "I didn't know you wanted so many things to be different."

"I warned you. I needed a change. Four years in one place was making my skin itch a little."

"But if you'd waited, I would have done all this for you." 

"I know, hon." She slid an arm around his waist. "And nothing is sexier than a man with power tools. But I knew you'd be busy when you came home. And, really, I needed some projects while you were gone. To keep my mind off things."

It took him a moment to figure out what she meant. "Your father." She hadn't talked much about herself in their weekly phone calls and intermittent emails. He hadn't thought of asking how the Old Man was doing.

"My father, yes. Who is doing his best to die, and to drag me down with him." Her eyes flashed angrily. "A couple weeks ago I went over to visit and found him on the floor, mumbling. He'd fallen and he had a huge purple bruise up his hip from the blood thinner. His pressure was so low, they admitted him to the ICU. They think he mixed up his medicines." She shook her head. "And it's not because he gets confused or can't read the labels. He's as sharp as he ever was. He just doesn't bother to pay attention."

"He's what he is. You can't stand over him every minute. You're doing all you can."

"I suggested to him that he let me hire someone to drop by mornings and evenings and give him his pills and fix his meals. He nearly smashed my skull open with his cane." 

"You know what I think. If you insist on tickling the dragon's tail like that, you're lucky to get out alive."

It struck him unhappily that she wouldn't come with him to a foreign posting as long as her father was alive. She might long for it, but she was bound by a sense of filial duty. In the abstract, this was an admirable quality. In reality, it was an irritation. If the company reinstated him, he'd have to wait out his father-in-law's life before he got Ter at his side.

They ordered Chinese from a place in the city center and Ter lit candles. Even with all the changes, home was still home. He asked about her father but she shook her head moodily. She waved off his questions about her work, too. All routine, she said. Not worth talking about. He asked about the stack of math textbooks she'd left in a neat pile on the coffee table next to a notebook covered in equations. The top book was about some Bernoulli, who Callahan had vaguely heard of. Math was an old passion, and had been her major in college. The textbooks were from the public library, she explained. She was dabbling for fun. To get her mind off her dad. A pink tinge came into her face and a furtive look, as if he'd caught her reading porn mags. After dinner, she moved the books into her office on the second floor. 

Mostly, they talked about his trip. He was delighted by her interest, since he'd been braced to come home to one of her dark moods or a few cutting remarks about the company's immorality. But she prompted him to tell her everything about the embassy and the personalities there and management people, and she closed her eyes as if wanting his words to transport her.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about Marchev. It had continued to haunt him since the evening he'd come over the top of the hill and seen the empty field. He shouldn't have returned, maybe. "Let it lie, son," his father would have said - that was always his dad's counsel. Cut your losses. Don't look back. Don't look for trouble. Thoughts of Marchev had soured his last week in Sokhrina, when he'd had to bite back the urge to raise the subject with Karel. Of course he couldn't do that. He had similar urges sometimes while driving over a branch of the Potomac on his way to work, knowing he could wrench the wheel and floor the accelerator and take his car through the guardrails at full speed. He was lured by anything taboo. 

Ter would listen if he told her about Marchev. It wouldn't be an NTK violation this time. The atrocities there were now public knowledge. The fact that it had been razed in favor of a future _ofizpark_ on the site, was not a state secret.

But how could he explain the gutted feeling it had given him to see the empty land from the top of the hill? No guardhouse, no prison, no barbed wire. No spreading city of UN tents and UN trucks and activity and uniformed people walking briskly, carrying folders and medical equipment. No open pits now with tarp spread around them; no forensics people working beside the pits in masks and hazmat suits. No prisoners, emaciated and silent, staring from their cots with empty eyes and unknowable thoughts. No more stench. Everything bleached and scrubbed away. 

The whole time he'd been camped out there - five weeks, since State and the company were happy to let him lie low, and it took that long to get Angel's repatriation and VA admission arranged - he hadn't had a decent shit. The engineering crew had built latrines on the first day with walls of bolted plastic and blue liquid chemicals that flowed out of barrels hauled in the beds of trucks. But every time he sat in the dark and tried to defecate, knife-like cramps went through his stomach. He couldn't stop thinking of the prisoners who'd shat their last shits into their pants just before the hammer came down or the bullet ripped them open. He had a hole in his intestines, he imagined, seeping feces so it poisoned his blood and permeated his whole body. The stink wasn't just around him; it was inside him. Even when he came back to the US, to the fancy tiled bathrooms of his home that Ter stocked with scented toilet rolls, where he could shower and shower and shower, he could still smell it in him. 

If he told Ter about Marchev, what it was really like, he'd have to explain that stuff to her. Even then, she would never really get it. To her it was just a word that conveyed American geopolitical sins: the company's, Azor's, his own. She'd talk about that cow stuff again. She'd talk about who was to blame. She was keeping her objections to herself, but deep down, she probably still held a grudge against him for being Azor's friend and looking the other way and following orders and letting it happen. And now for going back.

Ter was looking at him. "What is it?"

He wished now that he had saved the clump of earth from the site instead of rubbing it away to dust between his hands. He'd bring it to Angel. He'd just put it into her hands without a word. It would be warm and wet and she'd hold it, and he'd hold her hands in his, and neither of them would have to say a damn thing.

"It's nothing," he told her. "Just jet lag."

.

He was still jet-lagged the next afternoon when he met Quentin - not in his office but in a conference room in the same building. Two men and a woman were present as well. Quentin made the introductions. One of the men was from Operations and one was from State. The woman worked for a division called Interdepartmental Logistics, which he'd never heard of in his long career. He didn't ask for clarification. He assumed it had been created in the past four years, and there was no need to betray how far out of the loop he'd been. 

Quentin asked him to brief the visitors on everything he'd learned in Sokhrina. They asked smart questions and listened with a kind of deference Callahan remembered happily from ancient times. Quentin said little except to prompt him at times, evidently knowing what information the three wanted to hear. 

The woman wanted mostly to know about the power structure in the capital. "Simontov is just the Minister of the Interior. You speak of him as if he holds all the power, but of course he answers to the president. Where does the president stand in all this?"

"The president isn't much more than a figurehead. Nominally he still leads Parliament, but Azor Mirtallev drew away his power, and he was happy to give it up. He's an old man on his third term, coasting into retirement. Azor was the real leader, which means Simontov has inherited his mantle. All of Parliament expects him to lead, including the president. The Group of Eight are the next most powerful unit- those are the senators from the eight richest cantons. They worked closely with Azor and were the source of a lot of his power. He funneled money and jobs to their regions, and in return they followed his lead in Parliament. They might line up behind Simontov, or they might push him around if he can't establish himself." 

"And the paramilitary gangs that fought on the government side during the war," asked the man from State. "Are they still active in Arbeztan today? What role would they play in a war against the mountains?" 

The paramilitary gangs, nicknamed white wolves after Arbeztan's national symbol, had been Azor's secret weapon. They had roved and murdered across the Manzar territories and gone into the mountains where the roads were accessible. Marchev wasn't the only camp they had run, or the only one where mass graves were found. Many were Rachatan men. They were never punished when the treaty was signed. They had melted back into their families and today they still kissed their wives and children, drank their morning _kavje_ and went to work; respected men. 

"They're thugs," Callahan said. "All they ever did was kill farmers and rape peasants in the foothills."

"Should we count on them to do it again?"

Simontov wasn't Azor. He didn't have firm command of the Rachatan, so even if he wanted to, he couldn't orchestrate paramilitary attacks on the Karth. On the other hand, the same Rachatan men who'd enjoyed running Marchev might be eager to partake in some more free mayhem and murder. That would go against Simontov's ethics, but he wouldn't dare stop it. In fact, it was perfectly likely that Rachatan leaders would approach Simontov and offer him a detachment of patriotic Arbezi men, ready to go into the hills and fight the savages for Azor's honor. A deal would then be struck. There would be rewards for loyalty: government contracts for Rachatan-owned businesses; envelopes passed under the table; friendly faces appointed to regional posts. That was how it worked in Arbeztan. 

When the meeting broke up, the three shook his hand and departed. He and Quentin went up to the seventh floor together and went into the inner office. "Your reports have been strong," Quentin said. "The big question is the one no one asked. How much time do we have to give Simontov an answer on intervention? How long can you keep his loyalty? And don't fucking lie to me. We can't afford a miscalculation."

 _He's wrapped around my finger and he'll wait forever._ That was the lie Callahan wanted to tell. It would make him look the best, and it was a lie he could cover provided the government made a commitment to Simontov within the next couple weeks. He suspected they would. However, the risk that they would drag their feet and Simontov would go barking up a Russian tree was definitely there, and if that happened, Quentin's reputation would take a hit and he'd make sure Callahan got buried at Theta forever. So: the truth, then. 

"He's under a huge amount of pressure from every quarter. As long as I was there, I could coax him along. Without me, he'll buckle pretty fast. If we wanted to keep him waiting for our decision a little longer, we could do it by shoring up his position in some public way. Offer him something he can flaunt at home, that'll make him look strong and keep the dogs off him. Maybe we could keep him waiting a month at the outside. I wouldn't bet on it, though. I'd give him maybe two or three weeks. If we haven't made him a promise by then, he'll either take his offer to Russia or he'll send the Arbezi military into the mountains on their own. They'll take heavy losses, but it's a smarter risk than doing nothing while public opinion roasts him alive." 

"All right. I'll pass that on and I'll make sure everyone understands the time limits." He muttered, "I hope we get this, Jamie. For both our sakes. We could use a win."

"Have you talked to Cabrese about Angel Morjo?" It hurt to say her name in this office. As if she were company property now.

"He called today, in fact. He wants you to get in touch. See what you can get from her. But Jamie." He dropped his voice. His bluster was gone. "If all she knows is that the caves are unassailable and the terrorists are well-armed and well-protected, that's not going to help our case."

Callahan wondered what was going on with Quentin and the bosses. His vulnerability showed plainly. In the structure of the company, he was a middleman - basically, he ran a stable of professional talent. The bosses sent out word of what they needed. The middlemen provided bodies for the job. Sometimes the job was information gathering, or diplomatic hijinks, or the wooing of a foreign ambassador or business magnate by means fair or foul. Sometimes what was wanted was a strategy for untangling a thorny problem in an exotic corner of the world. Quentin was only one middleman of many. How many there were, and how many company men they each ran out of their stables, Callahan couldn't guess at. 

That was why, on the night of Azor's murder, Quentin had called at four in the morning. After Karel made the shocking quid pro quo offer of the mines, the bosses must have put out the call for information, analysis, or a strategic plan. Quentin had thought of him and called immediately, to get the jump on the other middlemen who might also have Arbezi connections. Quentin had called Callahan on a gamble. So far, Callahan hadn't let him down. But if the bosses decided to let the mining offer slip away and not to intervene in the Kar-Paval, then both Callahan and Quentin would have nothing to show for their efforts. 

Quentin didn't want Angel to provide any information that would weaken the case for intervention. He needed a win. They both did. Once the intervention began, small failures of intelligence would be exposed - but by then there was enough finger-pointing between the different departments that lapses were obscured in the smoke and rubble. No one wanted a full-out tragedy where American lives were lost. But there was a bit of flexibility built into the game, and everyone knew it and took advantage of it.

Callahan nodded. He'd learn what Angel knew, and then he'd frame his reports. Carefully.

Leaving the building, he felt let down. Almost everything was out of his hands now. He might be summoned for more briefings, but he suspected he wouldn't be. The reports he'd filed to Quentin from Sokhrina had already passed into the hands of the big bosses, who would gather and discuss them. He would get information from Angel and those reports would also go up the line. Then he and Quentin would wait and cross their fingers.

.

He found Theta unchanged. He busied himself with catch-up work. He got the lecture notes back from Christine Perlstein, who'd taken over his class. She was a chatty type and had apparently let the students fall into debates of American policy in the region; as a result they were a lesson and a half behind. He stopped at Central and picked up the bundle of mail that had been held for him during his absence. He thought of Angel, but as much as he wanted to see her, the thought of calling Cabrese galled him. He had a vision of the man leaning back in his chair. He'd smile and stroke the dark wood of his desk. "She's still getting settled in," he'd say with a muted gloat sugaring his voice. 

That afternoon, he staked out a bench across from the South Theta complex where the Krieger Language Building was. She came out through the doors alone. She was wearing the same clothes as before, the long skirt swirling at her heels, her shaggy hair now pinned back in clips. Her walk was different. She was swift and determined. He followed her at a distance until she disappeared up the walk to number 42. He stared after her for a moment. He could knock on her door. That would be the normal thing to do. Cabrese wouldn't like it, him taking matters into his own hands, but fuck Cabrese. 

Cabrese wouldn't like it.

He sagged. As bitter as it made him, he couldn't go against Cabrese's wishes.

He was about to turn away when Angel came back out. She had changed clothes. She raised her hand briefly and for a moment he thought she had spotted him despite the distance. Then she trotted down her front stairs and joined another woman and the two of them turned down the side path toward the trees. Callahan got a look at hte other woman's face. With a shock, he recognized her. She was the one he'd seen in the cell with the boy assassin at Theta Block. He'd assumed she was a guard who worked at the Block. Now it seemed clear she was something else. 

Callahan struck off on a tangent across the quad, climbing out of the grassy bowl of the campus and entering the woods a few hundred meters to the left of where the two women had entered. Reaching the loop trail, he listened. Assuming they meant to walk along the trail, there was a fifty percent chance they were headed his way. He moved off the path and into the forest so he wouldn't be spotted. Last year's leaves were soft below his feet. He paused and tucked his pants legs into his socks, then looked around him.

Funny how a man left his childhood behind and never looked back. There had been a time when he couldn't have imagined life outside the woods and farms; now he worked in a cultivated patch that had been scraped from a forest not too different from the one he'd been raised in, and the woods were all around him but he never thought of going to them. The scents of wood sorrel and decay took him back to those younger days. A squirrel chuck-chuck-chucked from a nearby tree. A stack of boulders in an open clearing drew his eye. In afternoon, the light would slant through an open spot in the tree cover, making this a perfect sunning place for snakes. He had been obsessed with snake-hunting as a kid. He should come back on another day, nearer to noon, and see what he could find. 

He moved stealthily through the trees, parallel to the path, keeping it in view and cocking his ears to the sounds around him. Back in his company training days, when he and Theresa were first recruited, they received three months of general training in James Bond stuff like covert pursuit, also weapons training, lockpicking, computer skills. It was the company's version of A-100. He and Theresa had both loved it even as they laughed at it. "I think they're just doing it out of respect for tradition," Theresa said after a day of orienteering. "Keeping the old romance of the spy game alive. Who wants to be a spy if you don't get taught how to escape handcuffs with a toothpick and disable enemies with your pinky." He'd been great at stalking on foot, because that was a game he'd played as a kid. He'd track the old man in the woods behind their home, and try to leap out and catch him by surprise. Just when he closed in his dad would say drily, "I hear you, Junior. You ain't got nothing on me yet." 

He heard a distant voice calling out. He ducked down behind a stand of sumac. The shuffle of footsteps approached. The other woman came into view, jogging easily over the uneven terrain, her blond bangs lifting from her forehead with every step. She had an athletic grace he liked, which made him wish for one disloyal instant that Theresa were more athletic - or at all athletic. The woman passed out of his line of sight quickly. A second set of footsteps was now approaching. He ducked lower. A dark excitement had hold of him.

Angel's plodding gait was a sharp contrast with the other woman's. She hit the ground heavily with each foot and seemed to favor one leg, so her strides were uneven. Even though she seemed slimmer than he remembered, she still carried extra weight and this added to her inelegant look. Her face was red and her mouth was open. Her feet were barely clearing the ground, which was a bad thing when the ground was studded with rocks and roots. 

She stumbled and fell, as if his thought had brought her down. She hit the ground with her knees first, then her hands, and cried out in pain. He glanced up the path. Now what? Angel climbed back to her feet slowly. Gingerly, she brushed gravel and leaf litter from her knees. 

From up the path he heard a rebuke from the unseen woman. "Where are you? Pick up the pace." Angel's face changed. It was a strange thing to see. The look of pain left her features as if a wet eraser had come down on a chalkboard. Her eyes emptied and she looked ahead with a gaze as vague and empty as a blind woman's. Then she lurched back into a jog and moved up the path. In a few seconds she was nothing but a dark flash between trees. Then not even that. 

She would come back to Number 42, he assumed, which meant they'd do the whole circuit. It would probably take somewhere between forty five minutes and an hour at her pace. He could return to his favored bench to keep watch on her front door and try to glean a little more information about her life. But he didn't relish all the wasted time. It also occurred to him that Cabrese might, one way or another, become aware that he had stalked Angel into the woods. It was the kind of ammunition that could be used against him if he were caught lying about it in some future debriefing. 

The whole thing was ridiculous. He was sneaking around in the woods when he should be meeting Angel face to face. He would confront Cabrese first thing tomorrow. Maybe he could take Angel out somewhere, say to lunch in Thompsonville. She had no car and didn't know the area, and Cabrese wasn't one to treat her like a human being, so she had probably been marooned on the base the whole time he was gone. Maybe he could stretch the lunch into a half-day: take her to a movie, sit in a cafe afterward, hear how she'd been doing, talk about old times. Marchev, maybe. He'd tell her about the lump of earth. How he'd stood on the site and thought of her. 

He stood up from his crouch, feeling every minute of his age as his knees creaked in protest. He swept his fingers through his hair to make sure no leaves or twigs had lodged there. Then he went out to the path, untucked his pants from his socks, surveyed his clothes to make sure he looked respectable. From there he walked briskly to the quad and across to the main parking lot. The smells of the forest clung to him - pine and old leaves - and put him a good mood. When he opened his front door, Ter was at the oven and the scent of roasting salmon and herbs was all around. He hugged her. 

"You're late," she said mildly. 

"I spend six weeks away, and all of Theta falls to pieces. My class is way behind schedule and finals are coming up in a few weeks. I'm preparing extra lectures to cover the gaps in the hopes of flogging them across the finish line." 

After dinner, he went into the first-floor office and closed the door. He needed to think of a good approach for Cabrese. At his desk, he let his thoughts go back to what he'd seen that day: Angel striding across the quad with her swirling skirt. Angel in the woods, stumbling to her knees and crying out. It had been hard to stay hidden in the trees, when all he'd wanted was to go to her side.

.

The next morning, he thought of calling Cabrese but hesitated. Maybe the man would be more relaxed if he caught him after lunch. Anyway, he really did have lectures to prepare. In the end he called Simontov instead.

"My friend, I'm fighting for you every day. Yesterday I met with representatives of our special combat operations. Today it will be the top men in State. I told them everything you and I discussed, and they're listening. They're listening very closely. I don't think it will be long." 

"You keep saying that," Simontov snapped. "I need an answer. Not more promises."

He worked on Simontov for a while, sweetening him up until he returned to a kind of grudging affability. The strain showed in his voice, though, even from thousands of miles away. "Once we get this settled, I'll come back to help run the American side. We can relax, then. We'll go to your country home where we can sketch birds and forget our worries."

He called Cabrese right after lunch. "I'm at the Block. Why don't you meet me here. Two o'clock would work." Callahan's palms were sweaty when he hung up, from gripping the phone so hard. 

The Block stood as squat and loathsome as before. Inside, the place gave off the impression of antisepsis covering up rot. A smell of Lysol was in the air. In the obs room, Cabrese was again wearing headphones and watching through the glass. He seemed bored. Again, the young blond - Angel's running partner - was inside the cell, The linguist was beside her, and they were standing over the Karth boy who was seated in a corner with one wrist cuffed to the bars above him. Even without sound, it was plain that the blond was shouting at him. He seemed to be ignoring her, rocking a little, crying, his free arm wrapped over his face. The blond kept looking at the linguist impatiently. Then she stepped forward abruptly and struck the boy a backhand across the face. His head snapped back against the bars. His free arm dropped. He was still for a minute. Then he hunched his head lower and began rocking again. A thin stream of blood dripped from his nose. 

Cabrese took off the headphones. "Interrogation is a subtle art. Lasalle in there, she's not one for subtlety. I have to let her make her own mistakes, though. One of these days, I keep hoping, she'll learn to trade the sledgehammer for a pair of forceps." 

Callahan bristled. "Does she use that sledgehammer on Angel Morjo?"

"Yes, I know you followed her into the woods yesterday. Thank you for not trying to hide it. It's never fun for me, when decent employees blunder into trouble and wreck their futures." He motioned toward a chair. "MIranda's been under strict orders not to ask her questions. You want to meet up with her, I take it."

It was too damn tricky, trying to meet Cabrese as a colleague, when the man was also his debriefer and had the goods on him and could destroy him with a word to Quentin. Of course it was this way because Cabrese wanted it this way and had set it up. He'd been brought in as Angel's handler, and when he realized who she was he'd probably talked Johanssen into handing him over. Maybe they'd made a trade: _Give me Callahan to fuck over, and you can have one of my hot girls and a player to be named later._

"She knows things we need to learn. About the Karth. There's decisions being made out in the world that depend on information she's got." It was an unsubtle dig. The prick traveled between Theta and the Block to scratch around inside people's skulls. Callahan played on a bigger field. 

The other man nodded. "Tonight, then. Between six and six-thirty. Miranda will have worn her out for an hour. You can intercept them on the trail. Miranda will drift away and leave you two alone together." He added, "Make it a warm reunion, not an interrogation. Keep it casual. Feel her out like she's a stranger you're cultivating. You think you know her, but you've been out of her life for a long time. She's different from what you're expecting." 

"All right." He wouldn't rise to the bait. 

"And don't spend too long with her. Walk her home after an hour. Meet me tomorrow at Central so you can tell me what you've learned. I'll see her too, to make sure you haven't damaged her."

"I won't damage her. For fuck's sake." 

"Not intentionally, no. By the way, she did ask about you after you left. I told her you were in Arbeztan on government business. You'll probably want to have a good story ready." 

Callahan threw a last look through the observation window before he left. Miranda Lasalle had the look and posture of a cartoon dominatrix. The linguist looked professional and detached, her expression unreadable. The Karth boy had his head low, his whole face hidden by his free arm. He was still rocking.


	25. angel pov:  reunion with C

Angel's right foot was jammed. She had thrust it too deep into a fissure in the rockface and now she couldn't get it out. She was three feet off the ground, not too high, but if she slipped now and fell backward with her foot caught-- She could not help imagining how her leg would twist and the bone crack. Her hands were beginning to cramp. Her right hand gripped a narrow ledge, and her left was wrapped around a small knob of rock.

"I'm stuck," she hissed. Her voice shook.

"Look down at the crack, then turn the foot to align with it. Your other option is to undo your laces with one hand and get your foot out of your shoe." 

Miranda, who was inches away and had her feet on solid ground, could reach out and yank the foot free herself. Angel's near-panic had a tinge of rage to it, but she focused and did what she was told. The foot came loose, but she was still shaking and wrung out and all she wanted in the world was to be off the rock. She wasn't sure she was getting any stronger or better at climbing, but she was getting used to hanging on and being scared. Maybe that was something. 

"All right. Enough for tonight. Come down." 

Angel backtracked, toeing carefully at the lip of the treacherous crevice, then finding a ledge for her left hand, then the bump of rock for her left foot. She jumped the final few feet, catching her thigh on an outcropping and gasping as it tore her pants and the skin beneath. She staggered back into someone's arms. 

"Not your smoothest landing," Miranda remarked. But Angel wasn't listening. She had lurched around to see whose body she had stumbled against, and the gash in her leg was forgotten.

"Hi," said Jamie. 

He was taller, or else she was shorter. Or maybe she was just confused by his suit. It was incongruous: a man in a suit in the middle of the woods. One of them - either him or her - must be in the wrong place. She couldn't figure out who. 

"You crazy kids know each other, I guess, and he says he'll walk you home," Miranda said. "I've got some work to do, so I'm going to cut through the trees and head back early. See you in the morning, Angel." 

It was just her and him then. It was too quiet with him looking at her, and a little gap of dusk between them, and tall trees bending overhead. "You're back," she said stupidly. 

"I've been gone longer than I wanted to be. I had a job out of the country and it dragged on. Tried to call to see how you were doing, but didn't have a number for you." He scanned her. "Looks like I shouldn't have spent so much time worrying about you. You fit right in. You haven't just grown roots." He picked a twig out of her hair and showed it to her. "You've sprouted local vegetation, too."

How did he do this: make it the most natural thing in the world that they should run into each other in the woods after two months? "It's my glamorous fashion sense." She ducked her head. "The natural look."

"And flesh wounds." He pointed to rip down her thigh. "Let me get you to your apartment. You should wash that."

"It's all right." That was the automatic answer. She wanted to see him but not in her home, which was her own place where she could think and be alone. If anyone entered, even Jamie, she'd be trapped. He might want to stay too long while she started having thoughts and needed to make a few cuts to distract herself - on her thigh now, high up, since her arms were exposed in the new tank top. Also she had washed her underthings in the sink recently and they were still draped over the backs of her kitchen chairs. "Let's stay out here. I'm fine."

"You look good," he said. "You really do." 

He'd said those same words when they'd met in the Virginia cafe. Back then she'd known it was a polite lie. Now she straightened. She didn't know if she looked good, but at least, she looked like someone she was proud to be.

He took her hand and squeezed it before she could stop him and before she could bite back a yelp of pain. "Oh, Christ," he said. "I'm sorry. You better tell me what parts of you aren't hurt."

She laughed. The half-smile he was giving her was a compliment, as if what he saw made him happy. It felt good -- awkward, but good. "Come on," she said. They set off along the path.

He matched her steps. "So tell me about Theta. How's the language thing been?"

"I'm working with a linguist, and she's great. Cath Lund. She's an idiot savant or something. We're busy in the recording studio pretty much all day, every day. And when I'm not with her, I'm out here with Miranda." She could see a question forming in his eyes about the Miranda thing, but she didn't really want to get into it. "I've been doing good," she said. "Tired. But still doing good."

"I worried like hell when I had to leave you. I thought about you. But I should have known you'd fit right in. And Cath Lund, yeah, she's something. I run into her sometimes at faculty dinners. Ask her about Mongolian dialects. I'm serious. You'd think that would be a boring conversation, but Cath gets so excited over it you have to love her, even while you're secretly thinking she's crazy."

It was easy with him. He made her feel normal. She was walking in the woods with another human being and they were having a conversation like friends did. He was natural and made her words came easily. How long had it been since she'd done anything like that? They talked about Theta and whether she was going stir-crazy here (she wasn't but only because she was always tired) and whether she'd discovered the overpriced Star Cafe (she'd seen it, never entered it). She told him about her endless desperate quest for quarters, how last Sunday she'd lifted the mattress and hunted under the sofa cushions because she was pretty sure a quarter had fallen out of her pocket and if she didn't find it, she wouldn't be able to do laundry. He stuck his hand in his pocket and brought out some coins. "Here: three quarters, on me. Your lifestyle looks like it demands lots of laundry."

A little ways on, they crossed paths with a guy in his twenties who running the loop in the opposite direction. "Professor Callahan, hi." 

After he passed, Jamie said, "I kinda hate it when they call me 'Professor.' Makes me feel sixty. Like I need gray hair and a tweed jacket."

Angel was puzzled - he was a professor but he'd just gone to Arbeztan on business. Finally she asked, "Were you traveling for work?"

"It wasn't my choice. I help oversee regulatory practices of American-owned companies based abroad in Arbeztan and the surrounding region. I represent US interests to the host countries and make sure our people are getting a fair deal from the government. The Arbezi government has been planning a major change to the laws regarding employment of locals in foreign-owned businesses. There's also talk of changes to the tax code, and-- I'd tell you all about it, but it's incredibly boring. The 'professor' thing is unrelated. I got roped into teaching a class every trimester on culture and politics and so forth. Anyway, I'm sorry I was away but I'm glad to be back. I'm not going anywhere in the near future." He paused. "So I'm kind of hoping we'll see each other sometimes." 

There was something awkward about the way he said it. Like a hopeful little boy. Like a geek asking out a prom queen. He was giving her that admiring look again.

"I'd like that."

"I'm thinking of a story I read once," he said. "It was about a wolf-girl who had two shapes: a human one for civilization and the wild wolf one that came over her sometimes when she went hunting for her family. That's what you're reminding me of. When I saw you in that cafe a couple months ago, you looked-- different. Like Boston hadn't been good for you. But you come out here to the hills of Appalachia, and you've changed your shape. Turned a little wild. Or reverted." 

She could not see herself as any kind of wolf-girl but there was something in the word _reverted_ that gave her goosebumps. She was becoming something she hadn't been in a long time. Feral, maybe. Or hopeful. Or just raw and flayed. Even the healing cuts on her left arm and the fresh ones on her hip and the gash in her leg and her torn hands, were a part of the change. "Ah, but those stories always end the same way." 

"How do you mean?" 

The wolf-girl always got hunted to death, usually by a mob of men who knew exactly who she was and pretended not to. "Nothing. Forget it. Do you come out here a lot?" she asked. She looked at his suit dubiously.

"Not in a while. I guess I have to confess: I called Dr. Cabrese this afternoon. I asked him where I could find you. Wanted to see you." 

"You can pretty much find me here every morning and every evening. I'm predictable that way."

"Anything but," he said. 

She didn't know how to answer. Was he flirting or was he just being nice? He was being charming in a way she wasn't used to, a way she couldn't remember him acting before. Maybe it was because she was becoming human. She wasn't starved or sick or crazy anymore, which must make a nice change for him. They passed under a laurel branch and she leaped to touch it. Showing off for him. Except that as she left the ground, pain scissored through her wounded thigh and she stifled a gasp. She was an idiot. Hopefully he hadn't noticed what an idiot she was. 

"I should thank you," she said abruptly.

"What for?"

"For getting me a place here, and a job. For getting me out of Boston that night." It wasn't easy to say the next part, but necessary. He had already guessed, hadn't he? "Things weren't so good in Boston. Even before the stalker from my past showed up to, you know, inflame my PTSD."

"De nada. You belong here, not there. And." He shuffled awkwardly. "And, I was glad to help. Glad you called me, even though it took four years."

Flirting? Or not? He was older than she was. He could be married and have four fat children. Did she even want him to be flirting? She could still feel the press of his arms from when she'd jumped down from the boulder and fallen back against him. She hadn't exactly known it was him so she had mostly been embarrassed and frightened until it was too late and she had already twisted away. That was the most physical contact she'd had since-- She thrust the memory away.

It had rained a couple days before, and the ground was not quite muddy but soft underfoot with a springy press to it. Her sneakers were soaked. They had been soaked for days. "Forests are like magic," Jamie said. "Reminds me of back home." 

"West Virginia." 

"You actually remember that." 

"Sure. You used to tell me all about it. Back there."

They had never spoken about _back there_. Even during her weeks at the VA, when he had come and sat at her bedside almost every night, they still never spoke of it. Those first weeks back in America, she was trying desperately to pretend none of it had ever happened to her. Jamie was willing to be the strong, quiet scaffolding that supported her fragile illusions.

They stopped walking. She couldn't look at him. "Fishing," she said. "That uncle of yours who taught you to hunt snakes. That time you cut school and got drunk at your friend's house, on his father's whiskey." A pine tree was beside her and a soft orange lichen protruded from its trunk. She ran her finger over it. Back and forth.

At Marchev, during the first week, she wouldn't talk. He used to come a few times a day and pull up a folding chair beside her cot and just talk about one thing or another, mostly about the place where he grew up. She would keep her eyes closed or her head turned away like she didn't care. She didn't want to be Angel Morjo and have to talk to him and answer questions and think about the past twenty-five years as Angel Morjo that had brought her here. But secretly she liked his visits, needed them - because when he talked, she quit being Angel Morjo and flew away to West Virginia on gull wings, and when she was there she was invisible, a watcher, and she didn't have to be anyone at all.

"So you really were listening. I never knew if you even understood me." 

"You told me about coal country, where men chew tobacco and boys jump in creeks. I listened," she said. "Always." 

"Angel." He bent. When he straightened, he was grimacing and his words came out scraped-sounding, like they were wrong-shaped and got stuck in his throat. "I never told you. How it broke my heart to find you in that place. A girl on spring break, and that's where you ended up." He stuck his hands in his pockets. 

"I don't talk about it," she whispered. "I never have. They wanted me to - at the VA and that other place. I didn't say a fucking word. No one knows." Something wet and powerful shot up in her, a jet of brackish water like the one Poseiden raised at Athens. Suddenly her head was spinning. The ground took on a tilt.

"Hey," he said. "Hey. Easy."

She slid down until she was sitting on the wet ground. Jamie crouched beside her. "I'm okay," she muttered. "Lightheaded. Dehydrated, maybe. I'll be fine in a sec."

"Tell me what I should do," he said. 

That was Jamie. He had always been like that, and it made her almost smile even through the whirling, sick feeling. She shook her head. "Just give me a minute."

"I can carry you back to your place. It's not far."

"No, no. Really." She staggered back up. She didn't feel great, but it was embarrassing to be on the ground with him doting on her. Another minute and he'd probably hoist her over his shoulder in a fireman lift as if she were a helpless kitten. She was fine, or she would be. Any moment now. "Come on. I'm better."

She set a slow pace and he stayed at her side. She was sick because she'd mentioned Marchev. That was like prying at the rusted hinges of a locked box. Inside was old bad air and a stained embalming cloth wrapped around a fetid thing that should never be spoken of. _Herself._ What she'd been there. What she'd allowed.

He was large and steady, just like he always had been. He was going to get her home. He was good at getting her home. Hadn't he gotten her out of Arbeztan? On the drove to the airport, he'd given her something - _it's medicine_ , he'd said - and what happened after that was confusing. She came awake at the airport in Virginia but she was still dazed and in a wheelchair she kept trying to climb out of. He spoke over her head to officials and pushed her through turnstiles and onto elevators. Then he got her into a cab, and then helped her out of it and into a building with a dingy lobby where an attendant brought a clipboard. He filled out forms. "Jamie," she said. She was starting to be awake enough to panic. "Jamie, where are we?"

"The VA. A rehab center, so you can get stronger. And I have to go, but I'll be back every evening."

For two weeks, he kept his word. When he sat beside her, those were the only hours she could sleep. She trusted him to keep watch over her. At night when visiting hours were over and he left her, she couldn't close her eyes. Then had come a week when he didn't visit and she worried he'd been killed on the road, or thrown in prison. She'd hunched in bed and heard chattering teeth in the walls, laughing at her. The pills they brought her looked off and she wouldn't swallow them, so they would grip her arm and swab her skin with an alcohol pad and jab in the needle while she writhed. Finally Jamie came back, haggard. He wouldn't say where he'd been and she was afraid to ask. But from then on, when he held her hand she had a feeling he was as desperate as she was. He came every day after five-thirty and stayed until eight when they threw him out.

She had messed it all up though. She'd driven him away with her craziness, with the furnace that flamed up unpredictably in her mind. On the night she used a piece of metal to open the flesh above the left wrist, she panicked as soon as the red tide flowed into the sheets and wanted to call it back and seal the hole. It was too late, though. They moved her to St. Luke's and Jamie never came again, only nurses with needles and pills and straps that held her down to teach her that she was helpless and nothing she did could hurt them back. She waited for Jamie during her clear periods but she couldn't keep track of the days and hours; they were all smashed to pieces along with the pieces of her mind. Jamie never came, and even though that killed her, she couldn't blame him. When she got her freedom, she crept away to Boston knowing he was disgusted by her. When his first letter arrived just after the new year she had marveled over it, exulted over it, treasured it, chanted its lines to herself every waking moment - but after the first rush of bliss she understood that it was mere politeness. She was a burden and she was ugly and crazy too, and he'd done more than enough for her already. 

They came out of the woods beside number 42. "You gonna be okay?" he asked. 

She nodded. "I just need to rest." 

"Well. I should let you go. How about tomorrow, though - we could go into town when we're both done with work. I'd take you out to one of the fine dining establishments. I think they have a Frisch's Big Boy. Also a Starbucks if you want to live it up."

She'd like that. That's what normal people did. But. "I can't. After work, I have to meet Miranda."

"She'd understand. I'll let her know you have other plans."

"I can't. I'm sorry."

He laughed. "You can't have a single evening off? Really? Says who?"

It was hard to explain. What should she say? _I lost a bet._ He was looking at her curiously. She didn't want to lie. "Dr. Cabrese." She said it quietly.

Was that a ripple of disapproval? "Okay, how about we meet for lunch, then. I'll be here at Theta all day." 

"You'd have to ask him."

"You're saying he keeps your social calendar?" She heard a magnetic hum in his voice, low and dangerous. "What's going on, Angel?"

There was no answer she could give. The thing between her and Dr. Cabrese was-- it was between just them. Something special. Something private.

He shrugged then, with a grin as if suddenly it didn't matter. "Okay. No problem. I'll talk to him; see if he can spare you. See you soon, then." 

She waited until he was up the walkway a little. Then she went inside and wolfed down the dinner that had been left for her. She tried to work her way out of her pants, but it hurt because threads of fabric had gotten stuck into the gash on her thigh and had dried in place. There was no easy way to do it, only the fast way: she yanked the cloth free, and the dried blood with it. The bleeding started up again. She wrapped a towel around the leg to keep the blood off the sheets. Then she fell into bed.


	26. cabrese's pov:  callahan, angel, miranda

Cabrese met Callahan on the second floor of Central, in the rarely used back section of the administrative wing where they wouldn't be disturbed.

His morning was already off to a distasteful start. A member of the Sons of Freedom had stumbled out of the Oregon woods a few days earlier after four months on the run, and had arrived at the Block during the night. Cabrese didn't usually do domestic cases, but the regular interrogator was out on maternity leave and there were rumors she wasn't coming back. As a stopgap, he'd been offered a temporary cross-appointment to the FBI. 

It was immediately clear that the man, wild-eyed and thatch-bearded, had an IQ somewhere south of ninety. Cabrese didn't enjoy the interrogation. He couldn't respect himself for knocking down a subject who lacked the wits to marshal any defense. The man had started off sulkily defiant but in just a few minutes he was shouting slogans in a kind of panic, striking the table and getting spittle all over everything. Eventually he put his head down and clamped his hands tightly over his ears - trying to shut out the devil, it looked like. Cabrese sighed. This had been someone's kid, once, some father's pride. He'd been born innocent and it had taken a crafty thinker to recruit him and lead by the nose into SOF. Now he'd spend his life in prison for planting a bomb exactly like he'd been told to plant it. He'd been led. He'd obeyed. He wasn't bright enough to read the instructions on a toaster oven. He and the Karth boy, Cabrese thought: two idiot peas in a pod. 

The trouble with his job was that if you spent a minute getting to know any terrorist, really listening to them and learning why they did what they did, you ended up seeing their side of it and then you wanted to just pardon them all. They were brave and noble, lots of them, or just plain simple like this one, or they'd been trained to a certain way of thinking, or they'd been wounded by grievous losses and legitimate beefs against the US. The smart ones could see how grotesquely the deck was stacked against them. The only power they had, the only mark they could ever leave, was a crater in some cafe sidewalk and a splash of blood, people screaming, a little stab towards evening the scales. 

Sometimes he played with the idea of forgiveness. What if people like the Karth boy and this poor soul from SOF were just counseled and released? Well, you could see that it would never work out; it would just lead to more trouble and more innocents getting abused. So you accepted a flawed system and worked inside it because it was better than any alternative.

He sat across from Callahan. It was refreshing to deal with a man like this, who was bright at least and could carry on an intelligent conversation. "So. How did your reunion go?" 

"No difficulties. She seemed glad to see me. I'm sending Quentin a brief report later today and I can forward you a copy, if you want." 

"That would be appreciated. What was your general impression?" 

Callahan's regular features were overwritten with wariness. "Well, she's different from what she was when I left. Better, in some ways. In other ways, she's--" 

"She's what?" 

"Well, you know," Callahan's mouth curled. "I'd say it, but I'm trying to be polite here." 

"Is this hard for you, Jamie?" 

The other man grimaced. "Jesus, don't start with that. We're talking about a project. This isn't a CDD." 

"And in this project, you and I are supposed to be on the same side." 

Callahan took the warning. He was a professional. "I'd say she seems happier and more open. Less awkward, more confident. Physically, she's in better shape. And she's a lot less twitchy than when I last saw her." 

"Then what concerns you?" 

"For one thing, she looked scared to death clambering around on those rocks with your friend. If she gets hurt--" He didn't finish the sentence. "I'm going to assume no one will let that happen. Beyond that, yeah, I have other concerns. Not sure you'll want to hear them, though." 

"Actually, I respect your insights. You've known her a lot longer than I have. You think I'm not treating her well?" 

He could see Callahan choosing his words carefully. "I think-- she's being controlled."

"By me, you mean."

"Yes. I just can't figure out why she's letting you. She didn't used to be so--" He shook his head. "Malleable. When I met her at Marchev, she was three-quarters dead and could barely lift her head up off the cot but even then, no one could tell her what to do. Stubborn. Same thing at the VA after I brought her back. She wouldn't talk, wouldn't cooperate. But here? Here, she's letting you manage her every move." He glanced toward the window. "I guess you're the one who arranged all this physical training. That woman, Lasalle, she's acting on your orders?"

"Yes."

"Morning and evening. And she has to ask your permission if she wants a day off or a lunch in town."

"Interestingly enough, in two months she's never asked."

"So she's under your thumb."

"But you think she looks better. That was your first impression."

"If she's got no will of her own, I don't know that that's better. I'd call it worse. And maybe unethical." 

Cabrese had known from the beginning that Callahan would need managing. The man was a white knight, a predictable type. "You won't believe this, I suppose, but I followed her lead. She let me know what she wanted. All I did was give it to her." 

"Bullshit." 

"Listen. And try to understand. She's-- tormented, I guess, is as good a word as any. You agree? She's lived in a prison of mental agonies for a long time. She made choices in Arbeztan. I don't know what they were, but obviously things went wrong, she suffered, other people suffered or got killed. She came back from it; the best friend disappeared somewhere in the war. She doesn't know what's right or wrong anymore. What she does know is that she's not good at choosing. She wanted me to fix things so she wouldn't have any decisions to make. I did that. It's been good for her. I arranged a rest for her mind while she heals up a bit. Makes sense?" 

"No. No one gives up their choices voluntarily." 

"I disagree. That's the whole attraction of cults, fundamentalist religion, a domineering spouse. That's why people join the Marines. You give up your choices, it's a good feeling. You know Sartre? The price of being an independent agent is anguish. I took that anguish off her shoulders."

"Even supposing that's a good thing. What about her future? What happens when she leaves here?" 

"I have fifteen more weeks with her. She's going to walk of here on her own two feet, ready for whatever path she chooses. This is what I do for a living. I'm good at it." 

"In other words: I should trust you." 

"She's happier, healthier, and stronger. She's not drinking. She's confident. She's doing well with the linguist. She's going to do well with you, because you'll be good with her. You'll get the information she has, and you'll be her friend. You'll help her re-integrate and succeed in society. You'll make her feel smart and pretty and valuable and normal. So yes: you should trust me. She'll be okay and that will be mostly thanks to you." He could see Callahan trying to hold onto his resentment, and at the same time wanting to believe. "What did you talk about last night? Did she tell you anything valuable?" 

"I didn't push for anything. Didn't even mention the Karth. But." Callahan frowned. "I don't think it will be hard. I think she wants to talk to someone." 

"Not just someone. You. See her twice a week, then. You can meet her on the trail this Thursday like you did last night. Just remember: she's primed to fall in love with you. Be careful with her." 

After Callahan left, Cabrese cast a baleful eye at his appointment book. His two o'clock was the most enjoyable name on today's schedule. Hal Messner: a brilliant young specialist in West African politics, who had been put on mandatory probation when he shoved a student against a wall in office. Her version was that he'd made a translation error during the class and she'd gone to his office asking for clarification. His versions were that she was a smartass who had deliberately provoked him, a feminist with a grudge against superior males, a weak female who cried over nothing, and a moron who'd misunderstood the subtleties of his brilliant translation and had no business being in the Foreign Service in the first place. He cycled through all these versions in rapid-fire succession, shifting position like the charming sociopath he probably was. He also thought his probation was a joke. He thought Cabrese was in on the joke with him - that they were two brilliant men forced to jump through hoops, all because an inconsequential bitch had filed a complaint and the Theta administrators were rule-bound idiots. 

But he was witty. He had an exciting mind that made fast connections. He shared Cabrese's love of Paganini. Both men had played violin since childhood, and Cabrese had come to identify with him as if he were a younger brother who was self-destructing. He wanted to save Messner from himself, but with the probation period nearing its end it was clear there would be no salvation. Cabrese's final evaluation would describe Messner's personality disorder and condemn him as too unstable for field work and likely to re-offend or to put himself in compromising situations. Messner would be sent away with a farewell packet which would probably include a good recommendation and the names of contacts at private companies. The administrators would help him find another job. He wouldn't be destroyed, but he would be gone - and he wouldn't take it well. 

As seven o'clock neared, Cabrese felt his brain slowing. He was too old to be putting in hours like this. It was fortunate that his last appointment was a ten-minute job and was always right on time. Bless Miranda for that.

Angel Morjo was glowing through her weariness. "It's good to see you," he said. "How was the loop tonight?" 

"Same as always, sir. Only faster." 

"Hmm. Cocky." 

She grinned easily. "You like me cocky." 

"Only up to a point." She had slipped out of his grip, the past couple weeks. Her growing confidence meant his hold on her had lessened. "Injuries?" 

"None, sir." 

"You sure? Your left arm isn't bothering you?" She'd been carrying it gingerly for weeks. He had bet himself that if he said nothing, she'd eventually show him the injury and ask for help. He'd been wrong. He brought out an article from his desk and held it up. "Got you something." 

The general store had a few racks of clothes. He'd gone during his lunch break and picked up a tank top for her, olive green. She looked at it uncertainly. "Thanks." 

He tossed it to her. "Put it on." 

"What - here?" She looked toward the door and then toward him. 

It seemed like a good idea to remind her of her vulnerabilities. "Just put it on." 

Her chin went up. "Is that a dare?"

He could see into her past. Saw the lonely urban childhood, the awkward girl who stood apart from her peers. Saw her life with an immigrant father who kept to himself, drank by himself, and shouted at her in a language no one else spoke. The father wouldn't have been much help as his daughter raised herself in a hard-elbowed neighborhood on the streets of the new world. She'd made herself tough, tougher than all the other kids who didn't want her. She would have been friendless and proud through high school - a loner who'd made the best of what she had. 

"Not a dare. An order."

The cockiness drained out of her. She stilled. Oh, he had her number, all right.

She moved to take off the sweatshirt, but stalled out, her hands falling to her sides. "It's not so pretty," she muttered. "There's scars." 

"I know." 

Her eyes flashed. "Yeah, right. I forgot, they probably sent photos in those files you got." He said nothing, and finally she said, "Fine. Whatever." In one quick motion, she pulled off the sweatshirt and threw it to the floor. She wouldn't look at him now, but kept her jaw jutted out in an imitation of bravado. She pulled the tank top on sullenly. 

She had a few scars across her torso. Above her bra, he had gotten a glimpse of puckered brown circles that were probably cigarette burns. She was still fleshy, her spongy muscles swelling in soft curves. Her breasts under the sports bra had been asymmetric, and he suspected that the worst of the damage was concealed there. In the tank top she didn't look bad. There were a few whitened lines on her forearms from old lacerations. The long scar down her left wrist, the one she'd given herself at the VA, had healed well and didn't draw attention to itself. The most noticeable injury was on her left upper arm, where a nest of parallel cuts ranging from old to fresh were surrounded by puffed red flesh. 

"Been working on that a while?" 

"Keeps my mind off things." She was looking fixedly at a point on the wall. 

He got up and took her by the wrist, ignoring her attempt to pull away. He bent her arm out and took a close look. "Does it help?" 

"Sometimes." And then, "For a while." 

"It will get better," he told her. 

That got her to meet his gaze, just for an instant, quick and nervous. "It's... getting worse, actually." 

"First it gets worse. Then it gets better." 

She relaxed a little. "Yes, sir." 

"How bad is it?" 

"Not bad." 

"Ever think of killing yourself?" 

"N-no." 

"See, that's one of those questions where you're supposed to be sure of your answer." 

She hesitated. "It's not myself I think of killing." 

"Understood." He regarded her. "Who would you take out first?" 

"Oh, I got a list." She laughed angrily. "I think about it. How I'd do it. All the different ways. The broken bottle I'd twist in his face. The gasoline I'd pour over him. I'd start with that guy in Boston, the one who chased me. Not just him, though. Lots of people. A whole country full of people." 

Her rawness stirred him. "I can't say I don't sympathize," he told her. 

"Maybe someday." she muttered. "I'll make a bonfire. I'll watch them burn. I'll watch them scream." 

"I sympathize," he repeated. "But I worry." 

"No, don't." She tried to back out of it, shrug it off. "Don't listen to me. I'm not going to actually do anything. They're all out of reach, anyway." 

He thought. "Maybe you shouldn't be all alone at night. l could tell Miranda to move in with you, if you want. Having someone else there might help." 

She flashed a quick, startled look. "No. Don't." 

"It might keep you from getting lost in the past. And I'd be more certain you wouldn't do anything stupid." 

"Look, it's okay - I'm not actually planning to pour gasoline on anyone. At least, I think I'm not. I'm fairly sane, most days." 

"I worry," he repeated. 

"No. I'm okay. I like living alone. _Please._ " 

"All right." He nodded toward the wound. "That needs antibiotics. And it needs to be left alone for a few days. It'll heal, if you give it a chance." 

"Will it." Her mouth twisted. "Really. Will it. All of it?" A bright desperate note had entered her voice. "That's a promise you can make, huh."

"No. No promises here."

"Right," she said.

"Want me to lie to you?" 

"Maybe." She turned from him. "Maybe, just once in a while." 

People were like sedimentary rock. You sliced into them just right and you could read the whole story in their layers and how they'd been bent by the upheavals that had befallen them. He understood her enough to unbend her in some ways, erode her in others. But he couldn't do magic or erase the past. "Most of it will heal," he told her. "Not all of it. Some becomes part of you. Those are scars of experience that make you who you are." 

"Lucky me." She kicked her toe against the floor. "All right. I get it." 

"Are you using that journal I gave you?" 

Her eyes narrowed comically. "Notebook." 

"Right. Notebook. Slip of the tongue." 

He nodded toward the door, but she didn't go. She had something she wanted to spit out. "I didn't fight them," she said finally, in a low voice. "That's what fucking kills me. At Marchev. I didn't even try." 

There were no glib answers for that one. "I can tell you, that's how every POW feels. It's hard to remember, after you're back, how bad it was. You did what it took to survive." 

She shook her head fiercely. "No. I went along with it. I collaborated in my own destruction. Don't tell me I didn't." 

"Most people do," he said quietly. 

"I should have fought. Instead I-- I let them. Everything they wanted." He gave her his silent witness. After a minute she said, "I'm not sure I can live, sometimes."

"You can. That's one promise I can make."

"And you're sure it gets better." 

"Yes. But if I can be honest? I think there's something you'll have to do, if you ever want to get free." 

Her mute, desperate look stirred him. He had gotten to the core of her; he was down in the heat of her blood and marrow. "You're Karth," he said. "You've got debts to pay in your mountains." 

.

Miranda reappeared after she'd dropped off her charge. "Did she say anything to you?" he asked. 

"Nope." She looked annoyed. "I was listening in on the com. Why don't you ever ask her what she was doing in Arbeztan? She'd tell you everything if you'd just push a little."

"Cracking her would be easy. Putting the pieces together again would not. I keep hoping your experience with Mariz Chunak will teach you that people are delicate. Crushing them doesn't necessarily get good results." 

"I've been trying with him. I've tried everything. Stick and carrot. Everything in the books, everything you've taught me. He's just not giving me anything."

"Hm." 

A moment of doubt came over her face. "Maybe I've messed him up too badly. I came on too strong at the beginning, and now he's broken and I don't know how to fix him. You should take over." 

"No. He's your project from start to finish. Whatever he is now, you have to do your best with him." Seeing her dejection, he added, "You've done well with Angel Morjo." 

"Ha. I'm a glorified physical trainer - without the glory. You know, when you sent me in to work with her, I thought it would be different. I thought I was Jodie Foster and she would someday become psychotic. Try to eat my tongue while we were alone in the woods." 

"In that movie, the psychiatrist was the cannibal." He smiled archly, and she laughed.

"Are you saying I should be on my guard with you, Dr. Cabrese?" 

"Speaking seriously. You understand that everyone has something specific that they want, that they'll pursue and sacrifice for. You take one man: he wants to escape from a disgrace that's fallen on him. Another one wants to prove he's not sexually inadequate. A third wants security and routine - a risk-free life. But at a more basic level, everyone wants to think well of himself or herself. The young assassin, for example: he staked his life on the faith that he was martyring himself for a grand cause. He gave up every other dream for that. Remember that day you told him he was just a pawn in Jaro Koslan's game and that no one would remember him? That was a mistake. You destroy a man like that, you haven't won our side an ally. You just made him hate himself and give up on everything. I tell you this so that next time, you'll know better." 

"I see." She frowned. "Then he's beyond repair." 

"All you can do is keep trying. You may not salvage him, but you'll learn a lot along the way." 

"How about you?" she asked suddenly. "What the specific something that you want?" 

"Easy. To be the most brilliant debriefer at the company, admired and feared by multitudes." 

"And what do I want?" 

"Advancement, of course." She groaned. "And your patient there," he said, "What about her? What do you think Angel Morjo wants?"

"A clean slate," she said promptly. "To escape her memories. Reinvent herself, maybe redeem herself, once and for all."

"I think you're right. But reinvention and redemption are two different paths." 

"Which one will she choose?" 

"Whichever one she'd led toward. So. Imagine the possibilities."


	27. callahan hearing about angel in the mountains

On Tuesday, he caught up with Angel and Miranda on the south end of the loop. "I was hoping I'd see you two out here." He and Miranda went through a brief charade and then she faded gracefully away. Once again, he and Angel were alone. 

She was reticent at first. The woods were quiet aside from the occasional lonely calls of birds. His recent walks here had stirred memories of Carrolville, and he pointed out the vines and thorn-bushes that he could name. He liked talking about them to her. "That's pokeweed, the one with the purple berries. We used to smash them to paint our faces when we were little, me and my friends. Camouflage paint, we called it. And that's black raspberry over there but it won't be good for eating for another month."

She stayed mostly quiet, talking just enough to encourage him to go on with his stories: the king catfish in the creek behind his old home, the grove where he caught his first snake with his uncle. He could feel the nervousness going out of her. He got her talking about Boston a little and the things she'd done as a kid. She used to take the subway to the public library and stay until closing time. She used to run along the river when she was in high school.

Her right hand was bloodied. He asked. 

"It's nothing. I messed up while climbing. Lunged for a knob under an overhang and missed. My fault. But I got it on the second try. The rock wanted a blood sacrifice, I guess." 

"You were bleeding the last time I saw you."

"It's great, isn't it?" Her smile was sudden and bright. "I'm banged up everywhere. Means I'm alive."

"Damn, you're a strange one. Must be the Karth in you." That was how he got them started talking about what mattered. He told her about his visit to the Kar-Paval. The high peaks had been beautiful as they towered over him, he said, but their black stark might was forbidding. "How does anyone get by up there? Hard to believe there are villages with no phone, no heat, no electricity. People must starve in winter." 

"I only lived through one winter in the mountains," she answered. Her second winter was spent at Marchev; that's what she meant. "Food was a little short. It wasn't bad, though. The Karth have survived centuries of winters. They're geniuses at using every inch of cropland, and they set aside stores for when the snow moves in. Where the land is too steep for farming, they graze sheep. Fall is the slaughtering season. There are caves full of meat, butchered and frozen and shared among the whole village. Plus, most upland Karth have relatives who live in the lower cities and do business with Arbezi and Manzari in the lowlands. There's a tradition of _lofrak_. In winter, when there's no farming in the heights, Karth men of the high peaks come down to the low cities and offer their labor to their relatives there. In early spring they return to their home village. In return for the winter's work, the lowlanders send their relatives back up the mountain with anything the need. Of course when I was there, _lofrak_ was suspended because of the war. It went in reverse: men of the low cities sent their parents and children up the slopes to shelter at higher elevation, out of the reach of the Arbezi murder squads." 

"And no one freezes to death? The peaks must get their first snows in October." 

"We bring the animals down in winter to the middle slopes. Almost no one stays up high, and if there's a storm, the caves save us. They stay fifty degrees year round, if you go deep enough in. Some of them have been used for a thousand years. That's why the Arbezi couldn't defeat us, and never will. They have every advantage - but we have the mountains. And the courage to fight." 

She was guileless and trusting and he led her on easily. That was one thing about women: they were so unused to being really listened to, that just being quiet and interested won them over pretty fast. She fell open like a book at any page he wanted. She told him about the narrow paths she'd trekked over to fetch water every morning, and about the family she stayed with, their daily life, the care of sheep and mending of clothes, the size of her village and its political organization and how one village communicated with the nearby ones the old-fashioned way, with runners who carried messages just like they'd done for centuries. She was constructing for him a detailed sculpture of a world hardly any outsider had ever gained entrance to. In the back of his mind, he was building the report he'd sent to Quentin tonight.

Sometimes she fell into an awkward silence. He slid himself easily into the gaps, bridging them with mirrored stories from his own past, slipping in subtle compliments that egged her on. 

"How close did the war come to your village? Did many of the men go off to fight?"

"Every man fought unless he was too old or too young. There was a shortage of rifles, though. They used old ones, left over from some past conflict, the same ones they used to protect the sheep from predators. But pretty quickly a resistance was organized, and weapons became easier to come by and more sophisticated. That gave us a chance, at least, of defending ourselves."

"Wonder how they brought in more arms and ammunition. Must have had a dealer, I guess, down in the lowlands."

"We were still outgunned. They had tanks. They pounded Tamar for a week, and Tamar showed barely any resistance. You can't imagine it, the things I saw. Arms blown off. Mothers holding dead babies. When the shelling started, a lot of families fled Tamar for higher ground, and some of them took the western path towards Nevsanek where I was. I helped them get to safety. Plenty of them were wounded and the ones who couldn't climb and were too big to carry got left behind. There were two children who'd been separated from their mother in the confusion. One was too far gone when I found him. I carried the other one up to the village. The mother was waiting there. She'd climbed with the baby strapped to her back, and they'd come through it fine. But the child I carried was died a few days later. Her husband had been an organizer of the resistance, so he probably died too, but I never found out."

They stood under quiet trees, but she'd seen things he hadn't dreamed of. He thought of the Karth woman he'd met, who had given him lunch in the foothills. There had been no sign of children in her home. 

"Listen," she said suddenly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, of course. Anything."

"Hypothetically. Suppose someone, an American, ends up fighting in another country's war. Is that - I don't know - is it illegal?"

"I'd say that depends. Why?"

"I'll tell you," she said. She stopped and looked at him. It was a strange look, dark and uncertain. "I'll tell you, but you have to answer my question, first."

A prickle ran over his skin. "Angel."

"Answer me before you ask me anything."

"Well," he said slowly. It was dawning on him that she had secrets he hadn't come close to guessing, and maybe didn't want to know. "It depends on what country and what war. It's illegal to take up arms against America. And generally it's frowned upon to fight for an enemy of America."

"The Karth, though. Are the Karth an enemy of America?"

"What are you saying? You _fought_ for them?" He didn't have to ask; the answer was written in her face. She stared back stubbornly. Finally he spread his hands. "The Karth aren't classified as an enemy."

She nodded. "I fought for them. I was in the mountains for fourteen months. What did you think I was doing all that time?" She twisted away, back to the path, and started walking faster. He jogged a few steps to catch up. 

"Seriously?"

He couldn't believe she'd been keeping a secret like that. She could have told him at Marchev or at the VA or anytime since he picked her up at that cafe. She'd been as good as lying to him. She kept pumping her legs up the path like she was trying to shake him off. 

"You can stop acting so shocked," she said to the ground in front of her. "I'm Karth. We were at war, so I fought."

"Okay, but - you fought in what way? You mean you carried a weapon? Shot people?"

" _Yes._ Goddammit." He could see he was making her angry with his clumsy questions, but he just couldn't get his head around it. Couldn't see her with a gun in the middle of a battle, raising it, taking aim on someone. "I carried a weapon. Fought. Killed people. Et fucking cetera. Actually. I enjoyed pretty much the complete and unabridged wartime experience. Hard to believe, huh. Nice girl like me, and all that. So unladylike. So gauche. I should wear a suit and sit in an office all day like you."

"I didn't mean that. I'm just-- It's a surprise, that's all."

"Yeah, well." She had plunged on ahead again, her breath coming hard as she strode along like she was trying to outdistance him. "It was a surprise to me, too. Not exactly what I planned on." She muttered, "But you know, I was pretty good at it, actually."

"Good at what?"

"Shooting stuff."

Killing stuff, was that what she meant? "I'm sorry."

She snorted. "Why be sorry? I did what I was supposed to. I did the right thing."

"It couldn't have been easy. That's all I'm saying."

Her laugh rasped. "Oh, sometimes I liked it. There, now I've really shocked you. Yeah, I liked it. Sometimes we picked them off. Took them by surprise, so it was like stomping on roaches. Then we'd celebrate, because really, nothing felt better than racking up a few easy points. Not that we could ever even the score against them." The trail turned and bent uphill and she continued her furious pace.

"Do Karth women fight, usually?" 

"Women never fight. I was different, though." She shrugged. "I was what's called a _vyeschae._ Old custom: a woman dresses like a man, acts like a man. It used to be more common. Now there's hardly any of us left, just a few old folks in the high peaks who became men fifty years ago. It was Jaro's idea. As a woman, I was a distraction. So I stopped being one." 

"Just like that." 

"No, not really. Not just like that." 

"Is that how you know Koslan?"

"He was the commander of my cell."

Despite his whirling thoughts, it dawned on him what this meant. Wait until Quentin saw his next report. Wait until the bosses learned he had a direct line to someone who'd fought with Jaro Koslan. And yet the whole thing was so bizarre. She'd been frail and helpless when they met at Marchev. "They made you fight? Or you volunteered?" 

"They didn't make me. No one could make me. But I had to." 

"Because it was expected of you?" And she'd been an American girl. A regular college grad from Boston. 

She whirled on him. "I had to because I had to because I had to. I just had to, okay? End of fucking story. Why are we talking about this?" 

"Hey. Easy. I just wanted to understand."

A breeze picked up and Angel crossed her arms. There was gooseflesh all along them, he saw. 

They walked a while in silence. Finally she said, "I bet it's getting cold in the mountains right now. They put boards over the windows when the sun goes down. Soon the fall sheep slaughter will begin. They'll fill the caves with meat for winter and set the boys to take turns guarding it from wild animals. At night Jaro and the men are standing around the evening fires. Talking about me, maybe. The coward who went home to America and never came back. They thought I was one of them, you know. Sort of a woman and sort of an American, but they trusted that I was one of them. And I wanted to be one of them."

"What about Cabrese?" He shouldn't ask, maybe, but it couldn't help it. "Does he know about you?"

"No. And don't tell him. Please." The idea seemed to upset her. She added, "We don't talk about that stuff."

"You still see him, though, don't you?"

A pause. "I see him. We don't talk about anything, though."

He was glad she only talked to him. 

It was getting dark. Dusk was a shield that made it easier to talk to her. Azor was on his mind, Azor and his damn ideas about Arbezi glory, that had started all this. He wanted to tell her about Azor but he didn't know how to work up to it. "I know you lost your friend there," he said. "I lost a good friend in Arbeztan, too." 

"To the war?"

"Yes." Not the way she meant, but yes.

She shot him a look. "An Arbezi friend, you mean. My enemy."

"Yup."

"Then I hope the bastard died in agony. Sorry."

That was a fair wish. "Okay, but I miss him, though. Arbezi or not."

She laughed harshly. "What a fucking mess. Did he wear a suit, too? All you people in suits, you all stick together. But you still saved my life. Twice."

"I'm sorry for everything." That was the real thing he wanted her to know. "That the war happened and you were there. I wish none of that had ever touched you."

"Ah, well. Shit happens." The corner of her lip turned up. "There, that's my deep philosophical take on it. That's all I got."

He was pondering out an answer when they rounded a turn and came upon the place where the trail rose in switchbacks through a grove of pines. A mockingbird called from the treetops. "Wait for me," she said. "I have to run this hill five times. Miranda said. I'll be done in twelve minutes." She touched the young oak sapling at her side and dropped into a crouch.

"Want company? I'll run it with you." 

She looked at him in surprise. "But - in those clothes?" 

He wanted to smooth things over with her, get them onto friendlier ground, re-establish an uncomplicated friendship. He lined up beside her, making her shake her head like she thought he was nuts. He probably was. He played tennis sometimes, a sport he'd learning at college, but it had been a long time since he'd done any running. He and Ter had run together for a few months while they were dating. She wasn't the athletic type, though. He'd dragged her along and she'd hated it. 

His shoes chafed immediately as they started off. Good thing she was slow and he could go easy. They reached the crest together: her breathing hard, him barely panting. "Do we walk down?" he asked. "Or run?" 

"Run," she said. And she was already off, leaving him behind. On the downhill she led, surprising him. The trail was rough with slick rocks and roots; he trotted it carefully. She flew - knees high, leaping back and forth across the rough trail so her feet landed solidly. He blamed his shoes. She started the second uphill run before he did, so he kicked it up a notch to catch her. It was the same on the rest of the runs. Going up, she was slow, but coming back down she was surefooted and pulled ahead. They finished together. He was breathing as hard as she was. 

"I went easy on you, old man," she said.

"Uh huh. Thanks." He'd never admit how much she'd pushed him or how bad his feet hurt.

They set off again along the path. He was still thinking of Koslan and what she must know of his military strategies, and was trying to work his way into the subject without being too pushy. Before he could speak, she said suddenly, "I wasn't loyal. That's my crime. That's the thing I can never take back." 

"I'd take back a million things," he said. "So many, I don't even know what they are. I don't know how far back I'd have to go to make things simple again." She had told him things about herself, and it made it easier to tell her things, too. "You know - when we met over there, I was with the UN, but I wasn't really. I'd been sort of stashed there to get me out of the way because, well, because. It was kind of a PR stunt more than anything. I was just there as a token American. I didn't really have anything to do with liberating Marchev."

"You did, though. The morning you arrived with the rest of them, the guards all ran away that morning. They got word you were coming, I think, because there was a lot of confusion and they were all arguing about whether to kill us. Then they just locked us in and ran away. So it was thanks to you. And all the stuff you did for me - that wasn't just PR. Was it?

"No. That part was real. That was the best thing I did over there. Best thing I've ever done, maybe."

"Do you still have that khaki uniform you used to wear?" 

"Yes. Packed away somewhere." Actually he knew exactly where it was: hanging in the back of his bedroom closet. He hadn't worn it since the day he had last seen her four years earlier, in the locked psych ward at St. Luke's. For years he had thought of getting rid of it but couldn't make the move. The uniform was memory made solid. Without it, Angel would be farther away. 

She kicked at a rock. "We never had uniforms. But you fight together, you get close. I didn't like the men, most of the time, but in war that stops mattering. What matters is, you all hate the same thing." She hesitated. "I made promises to them, you know. That I was Karth like them and I'd always fight." 

"Well, you did that." 

"For a while, but then I quit and came here." 

"You're American. You're home. War's over." 

After a moment, she said, "Jaro came to me you know. At Marchev, in the infirmary. Him and Matik, they left the camp in the night, but they came into the women's tent first to say goodbye to me. They said they'd see me in the mountains when I got better."

"All the Karth men did that - disappeared in the night, when we'd told them we'd arrange transport for them back to the mountains when they were well enough. No one could figure out why they wouldn't just wait."

"Because of the boots they'd stolen. They each had about three pairs tied together and slung over their shoulders that night. Probably they'd taken food and medicine, too. You had so much. And they'd gotten word out and arranged to be met on the road by some of our people, so they didn't need rides from you anyway." She tilted back her head and studied the sky. "It's getting late. I should get home." 

With that, she broke into a trot.


	28. journal:  carana and jiri, romance

Aug 7

Jiri, the dad in Carana's new family near the castle, was handsome. Jiri was dashing. Jiri flirted with Carana, my beautiful friend, behind the back of his beautiful wife. He certainly wasn't the first. I was a little stung, maybe, because the men who flirted with me always had something wrong with them but that was never true for Carana. Guys called out to her on the street all the time. Some of our fellow staffers had asked me if I thought she'd date them. I told them she was engaged. 

So I wasn't surprised Jiri flirted. I was just shocked she liked it. 

One night she told me she was going out to take a walk by the river. Two days later, she told me the truth: she'd gone to meet Jiri that night, while his wife and kids were away. I was speechless. Not because she'd betrayed Jesus and Chris Westerling with a married guy, but because she'd kept a secret like that from me. Alone on her side of the room every night, she'd entertained huge thoughts and made a huge decision and done something crazy - and she'd shut me out.

I tried to say the right things and act amazed and excited for her. I tried to figure out if they'd kissed, or even slept together, but she kept the details vague. That stung me too. I had thought we told each other everything.

After that, things changed.

At first when she went out in the evenings, she acted embarrassed and secretive about it. Then she got over that. She started talking about how wonderful he was. And finally she stopped doing that and hardly mentioned him at all, just looked dreamy as if she could see a distant shore. I hated all the changes, but I didn't want to be a jerk, so I tried to hide it. 

Things got weird between us. Probably it was my fault. A worm had gotten into me and was beginning to gnaw on my insides. I couldn't talk to her any more. We never argued - it wasn't like that - and I said "Have fun!" when she went out and hoped it didn't sound unnatural. When she talked about him, I tried to smile despite the gnawing of the worm. But we became quiet and polite. There were no more late-night conversations in the dark. She stopped talking about Jesus. She still talked about Chris Westerling once in a while, but only in an anguished daytime-soap way, to say that she didn't want to hurt him and she didn't want to be unfaithful but that she didn't want to lie to him either. 

In the middle of February I came home from work and found her crying in the bedroom, clutching the phone with the window open and the frosted air pouring over her, making her shiver. She had just broken up with Chris. I closed the window. I made hot chocolate. I liked doing it, because I still liked taking care of her. I listened to her for the next two hours while she cried and talked about guilt and God and how she couldn't help her feelings. After two hours she was done with me, and she got out of bed and washed her face and put on makeup and clothes, and checked herself in the mirror from a couple of angles. She looked amazing as always. She went out to meet Jiri. 

That night when she came home, I pretended to be asleep. That was a habit I'd adopted. She bumped into the room, and groaned, and fell across her bed. A high-heeled shoe struck the floor. She mumbled something against the pillow that might have been my name. Then she heaved a sigh. After a minute her breathing got regular and rasping, breaths that were almost snores. I almost hated her, and it seemed fitting that a glamorous girl who'd leave her God and her fiance and her best friend should be like this when no one was around: disheveled and snoring in her fancy clubbing clothes.

But in the night I woke up and heard her crying. I said, "Cari?" She said it was nothing. I would have gone to her and hugged her, except she didn't want me to; also I was cold inside and afflicted with too many thoughts, all of them arguing with each other. 

For so long I had thought we were connected like two drops of water that had merged into one. I thought I knew everything about her. But now she was a whole separate thing and the thought struck me: maybe I'd never actually known the first damn thing about her. 

When morning came, we didn't talk about the crying. She didn't bring it up, so neither did I.


	29. callahan POV, further talks with angel

It wasn't hard getting her to talk about her life among Koslan's fighters. The high black cliffs came to life; he could see lines of grizzled men winding up crevices, pulling their bodies upward along crude ropes staked into cracks in the rock. She was the small figure among them, bundled into shearling and bent under a rifle. He could see her squatting behind low cover at the bend of a road as the sun came up, awaiting a signal to ambush an Arbezi truck. She spoke with fierce affection of the men who had been her comrades. He had been so wrong in his assumptions about her mountain life, that it stunned him. He had pictured her cooking, hauling water, hauling babies.

Cabrese had known. Had warned him, back during the CDD. _It's a pack of lies. All of it._

"You know, I can work on getting you a permanent job. Your six-month term is half over. I can talk to the head of Cultural Studies about you. I'll point out that you're our only expert on the Karth." He was irritated by what she'd said about Jaro - that he'd left Marchev expecting her to join him back in the Kar-Paval. "We get you a real job, and you can move off the base if you want. Get a car, a mean landlord, worry about your credit rating. That's the good life."

State would need someone who spoke Karthic and knew the mountains. After their military engagement ended, they'd be mining Karth territory within a year. Catherine Lund knew the words but Angel knew the terrain and the people. The next time he saw Quentin, he would slide this subject onto the table. 

"You can talk to anyone you want," she said. "I'd like to stay here, you know. I'd like to stay here forever." She looked at him seriously. "I'm still Karth, though." 

"What does that mean? You're not going back. You got hurt enough over there already."

"Jaro went back. Everyone else did, too. The ones that lived." 

"That was home for them. This is home for you."

It was different for Jaro and those men. She must see that. They had no other home and no better country. Also, Jaro had gone on to establish himself as a self-styled messiah and champion of the people, which undoubtedly won him a comfortable and prestigious life. He had seen Jaro's charisma firsthand in Marchev. The man had been starved to a gaunt flame and was covered with sores, and still his words about the Karth plight had captivated Callahan. Jaro was a born leader - basically, he was the Karth version of Azor Mirtallev. And despite whatever fine words he preached about liberation and triumph, he was a man who led raids on civilian towns and burned families alive. 

Angel wouldn't want to hear those things. So he just said, "You know, you don't owe them anything." 

She turned on him. "That's what you think?" 

He recognized his misstep. "What I mean is, you'd be wasted there. You're one of them but you have something special to offer. You're Karth and you're American. Right here near Washington is where you can do good. You can do what no other Karth can do: you can represent the Karth perspective to me and the State Department. America is where you'll make a difference."

The face she turned on him was twisted, full of pain and indecision. "I don't want to go back there," she said at last. "I like it here where it's safe and I have a job and enough to eat. But I keep thinking - that maybe what I want doesn't matter." She shrugged, and there was a helplessness in the gesture, a surrender. "I don't know. I don't know what happens next."

He searched for a way to tip the conversation back to Virginia, the home fires, the connection between them. Just off the path was a flat-faced boulder under the trees, and by habit his gaze went to the crevices near its base. He caught the sliding movement in the shadows. "Look," he said, pointing. "Do you see it?" 

"The rock?" 

"Snake. Rattler, probably. Right there." He picked up a stick and used it to point with, edging forward. "That's a good-size one. Not big enough to kill you, but big enough to sink its fangs right through those thin pants you're wearing and make you pretty sick. They like crevices just like that one. They're nocturnal, and at this time of year you see them out just before sunset sometimes. But don't worry; they don't bite unless you give them a good reason." 

"I see it," she said. "Funny - in Boston, the main wildlife was pigeons roosting under the bridges, and rats scuttling in the subways. But up in the Kar-Paval there are lynxes. And eagles overhead, owls calling in the night. We have snakes too - little ones, not too high up. They like the stone foundations of cottages. They curl up by the front entry-stone, sometimes." 

"I caught them, as a kid. Venomous ones. Did I ever tell you my snake stories? My uncle was the famous snake rustler in our area and he taught my everything about them: how to catch them, trap them, kill them. One day we were called to a neighbor's house to catch a cottonmouth under the porch. I was twelve and thought I was old enough to go alone, but Uncle Steve wouldn't let me. We argued about it on the way over and when we got there, maybe he wasn't paying attention because I'd gotten him too angry. He reached under with his pole, his lucky pole he'd always said. But it wasn't lucky for him that day. He turned to me, dead white, and said he'd been bit. 'Guess I should have let you take this one on your own after all.' " The memory leaped back. 

"What did you do?" Angel asked. 

"Went screaming to the neighbors. They loaded him up in their truck and off we went, bumping over those country roads. Uncle Steve's arm swelled up purple while I was in the back seat with him. His eyes bulged out so I could see the whites of them. That's what I remember most: the whites of his eyes and the way his breath rattled. He quit breathing just as we reached the hospital."

"Did he live?"

"Ole Unca Steve? Couldn't kill him with a stick. He spent three days in intensive care but a week later, he came around my house same as always. "Little bubba, saddle up; we got snakes to catch!" 

She took a step forward, mesmerized. The rattlesnake flicked out its tongue. 

"Careful." He put his arm out protectively to bar her way. "Don't ask for trouble with them. Every couple years someone gets bit in these woods and gets rushed to Fairfax for antivenin." 

"You're kidding. Does anyone die?" 

"Not that I know of - but a bite's no picnic. And, I hate to say it, but my uncle was never quite the same after he got back from the hospital. His blood pressure got too low, they said. I remember Aunt Shellie having to write out instructions for him when she went away for a weekend. 'Call Mac about fixing the truck. Don't use the stove until I get back.' " 

Uncle Steve was long gone, having been taken by cancer of the esophagus a few years later. The disease and treatment had left his flesh wasted, his body riddled with tubes that dripped nutrition into him and drained fluids out. He might have liked a clean early death by snakebite better than the one he got - if only anyone had had a crystal ball the day he got bit, and had given him the choice.

He saw the way she looked at the rocks, at the boulders all around them. She didn't like snakes as much as she pretended to. "Don't worry," he reassured her. "They won't bother you on the path or when you're climbing up your boulders. They'll get out of your path because they'll hear you coming a mile away." 

"Hey! I move like a cat, I'll have you know."

"Keep telling yourself that." 

She laughed. They were now just a half-mile from where the trail ran near her apartment. After he said goodbye to her, he'd head home and dash off an update to Quentin. _She fought with the Karth. She fought under Jaro Koslan._ The thought of his triumph excited him. What a strange and primitive world she had been part of. He felt like his eye was to a keyhole and he was getting a glimpse of man's atavistic past. 

"So, tomorrow," he said. "Doing anything interesting?" 

"Oh. Big plans, as always. Up at five-thirty, then I meet Miranda out here at first light. Then Catherine and I will work on the latest dialogue recordings we're doing in Karthic. We're working on an online dictionary, too, now that she's come up with phonetic spellings - the first written Karthic ever, probably. She's got some computer genius working on a program that will do translations. But that's just in the morning. In the afternoon she's usually busy somewhere else, so I'll make recordings by myself until it's time to leave." 

In the afternoon Catherine Lund would be at the Block, standing over the boy assassin as he rocked and cried. 

Angel had gotten free of Marchev; the Karth boy had entered the Block. It was as if he had taken her place - but the exchange wasn't symmetric, since the Block was a far kinder place than Marchev. If you stepped back, you could see a big pattern in the way the world was changing, inch by inch. Marchev was torn down. The Karth boy had been rescued from the GC cells and brought to the Block in order to keep the state security men from torturing him to death. Even the killing of Azor was part of the general arc toward justice. Azor had been a great friend, irreplaceable, but there was some justice in his death, and Simontov would be a more sober leader for Arbeztan. Simontov would steer the country away from corruption, toward civility and democracy. He was not the kind of man to involve himself with the GC. Eventually the secret prison would become superfluous as Arbeztan became more like America, with protection for minorities and dissenters. 

The dark turning of the world was like a Ferris wheel: some people got off, others got on; the wheel kept going. The thing turned itself with no one at the controls - or maybe it was more accurate to say that so many people had a hand in spinning it, that no one person could ever change the way things were. The wheel visited a set amount of misery on the people trapped in it, including some who deserved misery and many who didn't. With time, however, and with American encouragement, the world leaned closer toward justice. That was why the company mattered, even though the day-to-day work might be unsavory. Short-term ploys would engineer long-term gains, not just here but everywhere. 

"And after work, Miranda will come banging on your door."

"Yes." She smiled.

"And Cabrese?" He couldn't keep himself from asking it. 

"Not tomorrow. Now, your turn. What will you be doing?" 

"Sadly, I will be in my office reviewing the latest Arbezi parliament proceedings relating to taxation of foreign-owned companies." 

"I'm sure that what you do is important." 

"You're way too kind, but it really is as boring as it sounds." 

She laughed. She was getting younger, it seemed to him. Of course she had always been young - a young hurt thing, a spring-break girl. But only lately was he seeing youth in her face. She reminded him of the students he had seen at Marnie's going-away party, with their optimism for what lay ahead. He felt a rush of pride and happiness at how well it had worked out. He'd brought her here, and look: he'd saved her. 

He had dreamt of returning her to what he thought she must have been in Prague - a pretty, light-hearted thing in sunglasses, short skirt ruffling in the breeze. But she wouldn't be that girl again. She had lived in the harsh mountains. For reasons of her own - the call of family and duty, the romance of joining an underdog's fight - she'd been suckered into fighting Jaro Koslan's petty war. He had probably manipulated her with tales of glory, the way he must have done to the boy at the Block. She'd left her sunglasses and sandals at the side of some rocky path and taken up a weapon, remake herself as a soldier-girl: hard-bitten, scrambling among the cold peaks, taking aim on an advancing enemy. Then had come Marchev, where she'd been brutally remade again, into the flinching skeleton he'd rescued. 

And now? Now she was beginning to bloom. She would not be twenty-three again, or ever innocent again. But he'd given her back her future.. 

There was a way in which he missed the broken thing she had been four years ago. She had needed him so much back then - to steady her when she stood on trembling legs, to watch over her and keep her monsters away while she whimpered in her sleep. The joy of being needed had drawn him in like a drug. It was like parenthood, he imagined. You love your kid when it's small and holds your hand and cries in your arms. You miss those days later, when she grows, but you're proud to see her turn out right. 

He was speaking from experience. He had been in high school when he'd first noticed that he wasn't average, and that his strange ambitions were destined to pull him away from the comfortable life of friends, hunting, and Pabst Blue Ribbon that his friends were drifting happily towards. The whole gang of them would stay on in Fullerton shooting pool at Wendy's every Friday night, or at most they might move twenty miles down the highway to take a job in the Mott car dealership. They didn't care about seeing the world. He'd been reading National Geographic since he was ten, leafing through the copies at the public library, but it said something that he always skulked behind the farthest stacks in the nonfiction section while he pored over them, hiding his habit like he was reading pornos. 

He stood a moment outside her door after she went in. Then he walked slowly across the quad to the main lot and drove home. 

...................................

Protect Your Friend. He comes home and picks a fight with Ter, maybe, or sits alone. Or Ter is tied up in her office with her math books and it's clear they aren't connecting. There's a gulf between them despite their good intentions. They lie down in bed side by side, but now it's clear that both are thinking separate thoughts.

......

Quote from Angel. She's telling a story about the mountains.


	30. quentin proposes angel go back to mtns

Callahan drove one-handed, palm open - a habit that made Ter crazy but which he defended as, "It makes me happy. You like me happy." He had the radio up, the windows wide open. The sky was sweet and the whole world was on his side. Fall was around the corner and the viscous air of summer had started to thin. His triumph was at hand.

He'd been in his office daydreaming thirty minutes earlier when the call had come. Corinne's bright lilt made him sit up straight. "The bossman whistles, yet again," she said.

"Oh, he does, huh?" A thrill was creeping through his body.

"He says to come right now, my love. And he says to hurry, because it is good news and you are wanted for the celebration."

"Bless you. You're amazing. You're my favorite girl. I'm on my way."

A celebration. That could only mean that the bosses had made their decision: they were coming down on Karel's side. Quentin would get the credit. And he... he would get his career back. If not today, then soon. A celebration.

In the past weeks, his reports had been brilliant. Angel had been a gold mine. She knew how the separatists moved between cave systems, how they were organized and how they communicated from one cell to the next. She described weapons and tactics. After her allusions to weapons resupply and to a middleman known as _i Mastanje_ , the Swede, he had become fairly sure it was the Rachatan who were playing middleman, taking payment to smuggle arms to the base of the Kar-Paval where Jaro's men took over. It was like the Rachatan to benefit from all sides of the game.

When Angel talked, he could picture the terrorists loitering around their fires at night, or huddling in caves full of smoke and arguments. Fistfights broke out sometimes. The leader, Koslan, kept order by the force of his charisma. He favored small raiding parties that struck fast and retreated, making the most of his advantages. During the war there had been over a dozen cells, each with their own leader, and Koslan had held a loose and distant authority over them all. Angel had mentioned the names of a half-dozen men who'd been Koslan's trusted lieutenants, and the villages they often based their operations in. She painted a picture of a hardscrabble culture that worshipped Jaro as a messiah. During the wary, all the mountain boys had been eager recruits. Many of his fighters had been young men of the Karth foothill towns, merchants rather than shepherds. They'd scrambled up the slopes to take refuge from the execution squads and had fallen in behind his fiery rhetoric. 

He and Angel rambled through the woods. They left the path a lot, and she showed him her boulders. He wrecked two suits before he started keeping a change of clothes in his office. Their conversation rambled, too. She'd laugh about a fight between Koslan and his chief lieutenant. She'd tear up, talking about little kids getting torn up by land mines. She told him about midnight runs down the east flank of the Lonjat range with her compatriots, to meet the Swede and load boxes of ammunition into a truck. 

The separatists could be defeated; that was the message that threaded through his reports. It would not be impossible. And it would be in America's best interest. 

He spun the reports in his mind while he walked beside her. Half his mind listened to her, and the other half was tilting her words onto the page, arranging them the way the company would want. 

"Where the road dead-ended, three Arbezi trucks had been hidden behind a pile of cut brush. We could see that the soldiers were all asleep except the one on watch, and Matic killed him fast and quiet. Tollo and I were in charge of the barrel of gas. We had dragged it on a litter through the trees, quietly, and floated it across the Nujkra stream to where Jaro wanted it. When the explosion came, and the flames, it lit the night."

He didn't like those stories. She spoke coldly but her body trembled next to his and he knew it was killing her, the things she'd been forced to do. "Didn't it--" He was unsure how to ask. "Wasn't it hard, being part of that?"

"You don't think about it," she said grimly. "You just do your job. And if you take out a few of the enemy and get away without losing anyone, you're happy."

He could see why she'd gotten mixed up with the Karth. But it made him furious, what they'd done to her. She wasn't a killer. She'd been a girl on spring break, and they should have kept her safe and innocent, not pushed her into their murderous business. If there was one good thing he'd done in the world, it was get her back to civilization where she wouldn't have to get her hands dirty in the violent world of Jaro Koslan.

He worked hard to be fair in his reports. Of course the bosses should come down on Karel's side, that much was obvious. But he wouldn't lie. When Angel said they were dedicated fighters and the caves were hard to reach, he mostly reported that dutifully. Sometimes he even rewrote a few sentences when he thought he'd been unfair or painted things differently from the way Angel portrayed them. The hardest reports to write fairly, were the ones he wrote after talking with poor Karel. He didn't miss the mounting anxiety in his friend's voice, and he hated making endless promises. "It won't be long now. My government is close to coming down on your side." On those nights, his reports made Koslan out as desperate and weak. He couldn't help it. He had made Karel a promise.

His exit was coming up fast. Every time he came up on a car, he touched the accelerator and surged past. He used to drag race as a kid out on Mill Road past the city limits. Doing eighty in a suit and a BMW wasn't quite the thrill of misspent youth, but it wasn't bad. He passed a Lexus and a classic Corvette. It would be good to share the moment of triumph with Quentin. The old bulldog had taken a chance on him and they'd both come out winners. Of course Quentin would take all the credit for his work, would maybe even claim to have found Angel himself. That was okay. There was enough glory and reward to go around. 

Angel's future was also secured. Theta would become the training center for civilian contractors bound for the mines. They'd need a Karthic department within the Cultural Studies division. He'd speak for her. He'd make it happen. Then he'd help her find a real home off the base. She'd come to dinner and Theresa would befriend her. Theresa picked up strays sometimes, turning them into honorary nieces and nephews. Angel, who had no family, would be just her type. 

Eventually he'd tell Theresa where they'd met. "She was at Marchev," he'd explain. He wouldn't have to say more than that. Ter would get it.

He waved his parking tag at the garage attendant. Quentin had gotten it for him, saying, "Don't imagine this means anything." But of course it had meant something: in DC, a company parking tag was proof of importance. In the lobby of C23, the security guards checked his ID as always and called upstairs to confirm that he was expected, but it was all pro forma now. They knew his face and knew he belonged. Entering the office, he handed Corinne the hot pretzel he'd bought her out on the sidewalk. "Salt and mustard," he said. "I haven't forgotten." 

"All these years later, my love, and you still know how to make a woman smile. Mmm-hmm." She shook her head and pointed toward the closed door. "Go on in. They're waiting for you." 

_They?_

He stepped in. Quentin was not alone in the office. The two chairs across from his desk stood where they had always stood, and one was occupied. "Jamie," Quentin said. "You're right on time." 

The other man turned and smiled. "Hello, Jamie." 

Paul Cabrese.

What the hell wad Cabrese doing here? He took the empty chair. 

Quentin said, "There's been a proposal from above. Paul and I have just been discussing it." 

"We want your input," Cabrese said. 'It's your area of expertise." He blinked slowly like a cat.

"Sure. What is it?"

Quentin took over. "Suppose we were to bypass Arbeztan's government and make contact directly with the Karth. Strike a deal with them for mining rights. Then go to Simontov and tell him it's a fait accompli." 

Whatever Callahan had been expecting, it wasn't that. "Suicide," he said. 

"Why?"

"Because Karel will be outraged. He'll recall his ambassador to the US. He'll never agree to it. He'll freeze us out and go to Russia about the mines."

"They might not help him,"

"I keep telling you, it doesn't matter. He needs to fight the separatists. He'll do it alone if he has to. No way does he strike a deal with them, even if we twist his arm. The Rachatan, his rivals, the people of Arbeztan, they'd all have his head. He'd probably end up in prison for treason. He's not that stupid." 

"If Simontov signs on to our terms, we can give him a fat cut of the profits. He can use it to pay off everyone who needs paying off."

"He can't bargain with the Karth, not in this climate. There's no bribe big enough to pay off everyone who'll want his hide." 

"We can give him a fight. Easy to do," Quentin said. "Imagine. A detachment of brave Arbezi soldiers will go up into the Kar-Paval. They'll be up in the heights, out of sight. They'll come home triumphant a few days later with plenty of bodies - enough heads for Simontov to put on pikes around the city walls if that's what he needs to do. The media will trumpet Simontov's victory. They'll say that all the separatists are wiped out. They'll say the separatists were hated by the other Karth, that they were betrayed into the hands of the Arbezi military by the good and loyal Karth, the majority, who have always wanted only peace." 

Callahan turned the idea over in his mind. He said, slowly, "Simontov is a hero across the land. Azor is avenged."

"Yes. And a couple weeks later, Simontov will climb to the podium in the House of Parliament and announce the deal for the mines. He promises the people that riches will flow down from the Kar-Paval. The mines will put jewels in every pocket."

"And while everyone is cheering that success, he'll announce the back half of the deal. Provisions for semi-autonomy." 

"Now, what do you think? If you were the one bending Simontov's ear, could you talk him into it?"

 _If he were the one._ They were offering him the chance the clinch the deal. Simontov was desperate. He needed to settle the Karth problem quickly. He'd grasp at any straw. "We'd have to promise him it would work. No more trouble out of the Karth. And he'd want the money in his hands quickly. He can't wait until the mine is opened. But yeah," he nodded. "I could do it."

He'd meet Simontov at the Liliane or, better, in Karel's apartment. He would make a soft advance and talk about mines and money. He'd hold the threat of American displeasure in the background, but not so far in the background that Simontov would miss it. Simontov would still be outraged at America's duplicity, but Callahan would apologize and claim he knew nothing about his bosses' devious plans. Then he would present the deal as an opportunity rather than extortion. "Think, my friend. You'll be famous as the man who quelled the Karth terrorists. Your name will be on those mines. You'll enrich every citizen; you'll be loved more than Azor was. This will make your legacy. Azor brought war, but you'll bring prosperity and stability." 

Quentin continued. "There's been a lot of talk at high levels about the risks of an assault on the mountains. The information you've gotten from your girl and what Paul has pulled out of the Karth boy have been reviewed. The mountain terrain is too difficult to wage war against. It will cost billions and all we'll do is make enemies in every village. Those enemies will spend centuries to come sabotaging the mines. There's no appetite for another Afghanistan." 

"Understood," he said. The important thing was that the mining treaty would happen and he'd be in the thick of it. Simontov would pour out rakhje from the carafe. The two of them would toast the future. 

He was still stung by the way they'd dropped the proposal on him. He was the low man on the totem pole. Even Cabrese, who was nothing but the handler of the useless Karth boy, outranked him.

"Which brings us to the fine points of our approach to the Karth separatists. The catch, of course, is making the deal with the separatists. First we'd have to find them. Then we'd have to talk to them. Then they'd have to say yes. We're talking about a diplomatic team entering the mountains in secret. They'd have to locate the separatists, chiefly Jaro Koslan, a man who has no reason to trust Americans. We'd need a guide who knows the terrain. Who knows the language. Someone Jaro Koslan would trust on sight."

"Fortunately," said Cabrese, "We're lucky enough to have someone like that, right at Theta base." 

Callahan stared. Quentin's face was expressionless. "You're not serious." 

"She's the key to the plan. She's the one who makes it possible." 

"Are you crazy? She's a civilian. You can't bring a civilian into the middle of a job like that." 

"We do it all the time. All over the world, we hire civilians as guides and translators."

"And we protect them," Cabrese put in. 

"You're talking about locals. This is different. She's American. She's one of ours. And she doesn't want to go back there." 

"No one's going to force her," Cabrese said. "All that's been suggested is that we ask her. She's loyal to the Karth, right? This proposal is the best possible thing for them. They should have the chance to hear it. And Angel should decide for herself if she wants to help put it before them." 

"And if it's war instead," Quentin said, "she's likely to go back there anyway. To rejoin her guerillas and defend the homeland. Which I don't want to see happen - but I doubt I can prevent it."

"She wouldn't do that." The thought stunned him. Would she do that? "Anyway, you could find a local guide to do the same job. Koslan speaks good Arbezi. In Vuro, plenty of people speak Karth, Arbezi, Manzari, English. So you don't need to drag Angel into it." He knew already that it was a weak argument. 

"She can find Koslan's camp. She'll be trusted by them, and we'll be able to trust her too. A local guide could sell out our team to the Arbezi army, and that's a risk we can't take." Quentin set his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "We send a small group. Maybe two men for diplomacy and three or four for security, and her. Our people will help her make the climb. She'll be looked after." 

"What about the boy - the assassin? Can't you tame him to do your bidding? He's seen Koslan a lot more recently than Angel has."

"No," Cabrese said. "He's no good for it." 

"Because you people destroyed him."

"Or," said Cabrese, showing a little temper, "because he's a prisoner and she's a loyal American and a Theta employee. And a personal friend of you."

Quentin said, "According to your reports, her village was in the region Koslan comes from. You say she knows his parents. It's likely he's still in the same area, still using the same network of caves and whatever smuggling routes for arms that were established during the war. I think she'll be able to find him. And I think he'll say yes to the deal. And then you'll be sitting down with your friend Simontov to bring this thing home for us." 

It was a good plan. That was what was killing him, secretly. He should have thought of it himself. It should have been his proposal. He suspected the other two men were thinking the same thing. Because he cared about Angel, he hadn't seen the possibilities.

"One meeting won't be enough," he said slowly. "If Koslan agrees, that will only be the beginning. We'll have to get all the other leading Karth to fall in line. We can't strike a deal with the autonomous Karth government because there is no unified Karth government, not yet. So we'll have to help them organize. That will take months. It will take Angel's help, and mine. You'll need her to work with the Karth while I help her and work with Karel." 

"Yes," Quentin agreed. "You'd both be important going forward. She'd have a permanent position. And your status with the company would need to be... revised." He shrugged. "If you're still interested." 

"Hmm. Possibly."

Quentin's bark of laughter cut the tension. "Thought so." 

After that, they all relaxed. "When do you want me to to talk to her?" Callahan asked. "It should be me, of course." Down in his gut, the whole thing still felt wrong, but he couldn't argue with anything they'd said. "But I need to know you mean it when you say she'll be protected."

"She will be. She has to be. She's the one irreplaceable person on the team. If we had time we'd get her stronger first, but you said Simontov won't wait forever. We have to act before you lose control of him."

"Well," he sid to Cabrese. "I guess it's a lucky thing you've had her running around in the woods all these weeks." 

The other man looked at him. "You'll get it in a minute," he said quietly.

And he did.

"Wait. You--" He looked to Quentin. "And you. You planned this." His head spun. _Again. The company had done it to him again. Sucker punch._ "Jesus. You've been planning it from the beginning." He felt nauseous and weak and dizzy all at once. "Ever since she got here," he breathed. "Since the moment she arrived. Behind my back."

After all these years, they could still shock him.

"It's not exactly like that," said Quentin. "There was never any plan. We just saw her potential." 

"I was asked to rehabilitate her," Cabrese said. "For her own good, but also so she'd be ready, in case something came up where her skills and knowledge would be valuable. When we started, I didn't know what to expect. But as it turned out, she wanted the same thing for herself that we wanted to give her. _Corpore sanum in anima sano._ She has a heroic nature. Loyal and brave. You did her a great favor, getting her out of Boston. She was stagnating there. Here, she's becoming what she's supposed to be. And now the company has an opportunity for her. She has the right to hear about it." 

"It's the best hope," Quentin said. "We get the mines without any war. It's best for the Karth. It's best for her. It's best for you."


	31. callahan: gets angel to agree.  also ter, quentin, cabrese.

Callahan didn't like it.

They were using Angel, and they'd gone behind his back to do it. They'd groomed her for their own purposes, but they didn't care about her. He was the only one who did. He was the only one who knew or cared that she didn't want to go back to Arbeztan, to those cold and savage mountains that had nearly killed her and to the land that had shattered her body and mind. She belonged at Theta where nothing could hurt her. Where he could keep her safe.

His rage grew. All these weeks, the fuckers had kept him in the dark.

But there was the other side. There were facts that had to be faced. If she didn't play ball and take the job, Quentin might terminate her contract early. He had sponsored her her contract and could cut it short any time. And she wasn't needed at Theta anymore, because they'd wrung every particle of use out of her already. She had taught Cath Lund to speak Karthic. She had given up every useful information she had on the mountains and Jaro Koslan's operation. Too late, Callahan saw he'd played things badly. He should have been smart enough to keep some of her information, the best stuff, out of his reports. Then he could have pretended he was still working on her and she was still valuable. But he'd been too eager to impress the bosses, so he'd picked her clean and passed every scrap on to Quentin. And Quentin knew it.

If Quentin ended her contract, she'd have to move off the base immediately. Where would she go? Probably back to Boston. He could visit her there, in theory. But Cabrese would have concerns about their relationship. He'd have a watch kept on her and he'd know if Callahan traveled to see her. Callahan's CDD would roll around every six months and he'd be back on the damn sofa with Cabrese eyeing him, demanding answers, telling him he was getting in too deep and ordering him to steer clear of her. That was no good. On the other hand, if he got her to say yes to this job and she did well, she would have proven herself. She'd have a future with the company. Quentin would get the credit for bringing her to Theta, and Quentin would go to bat for him and get him back into Ambassadorial. Company work would keep him and Angel in each other's orbits. He could watch over her, be her mentor - a professional relationship, something Cabrese couldn't criticize. She was so innocent of the way Washington worked. She'd need him to show her the ropes.

So she had to say yes.

So he had to lean on her.

The trip wouldn't be bad. The risk was negligible: like Quentin said, she'd be the linchpin of the job and they'd do everything to keep her safe. The company would send experts to help her up the mountain, wherever she showed them the way. All she'd have to do on her own was the introductions and the interpreting, and how hard was that? Then she'd come home, tired and banged up from the climb, and he'd be waiting on the tarmac. It would be like the last time they'd been in an airport together, when she'd been frail and dazed and he'd pushed her wheelchair and lifted her into the cab. This time she'd come out of Arbeztan not quite so battered, but she'd still need him. He'd bring her to her apartment on the base and stand guard over her while she slept, like he used to. The company would demand to debrief her immediately but he wouldn't allow it. He'd tell them to back off because she was exhausted and she needed her rest.

Then his turn in Arbeztan would come. He'd approach Karel with charm and a hint of hidden threat. He'd appeal to the man's decency, too. "It's fair, Karel," he'd say. "It's a good deal for you and it's fair to the Karth. You know what Azor did to them. We're two honorable men and we should do the right thing." 

That night, he pulled Theresa close as she curled against him. They had barely spoken over dinner. He had gone to his office afterward, and sat alone, looking toward the window but seeing nothing but what lay ahead the following evening, when he would meet Angel in the forest and they would talk alone under the trees. He said, "There's things I wish I could tell you." 

She kissed his jaw. "Once, we kept things from each other all the time. You just need to get used to it again." 

He was disturbed by the imbalance between them. When they'd been in the game together, they'd had symmetry of things unspoken and this had sealed them to each other. 

"You should have secrets, too," he told her. "That would keep things balanced." 

"You imagine that I don't?" 

He laughed, his arms circling her comfortably as she settled her head on his chest. There was a perfect spot, as if there were a groove in him that had been carved especially for her. "Careful now. I was trained to shoot for the heart. I got top marks at it, way back in training. I might still remember how." He stroked her hair. "I saw Quentin today. Corinne, too. She sends her best." 

The unsaid words were tapping to get out, like a bird's beak against a dark window. 

_There's a woman._ _We met at Marchev._ _Don't be jealous, I don't love her the way I love you. It's just, I put her into that place and she's my responsibility. I brought her home. Now she's back in my life and she's all I think about. ._ _And there's a job I have to do. And when it's all over, I'd like you to meet her. I think you'd like her._

"Corinne's always been the best thing about Quentin," Theresa said. She peered at him in the darkness. "So. What do you think about your chances for reinstatement? Are things going your way?" 

"I think so. Yes." 

It was too dim for him to tell if she took this as good news or bad. "How much longer before you know for sure?" 

If Angel and the others returned triumphant from the mountains, Quentin would put a contract in front of him in minutes. Callahan knew the man; there was nothing like success to make him generous. And a treaty with the Karth would count as a major success for Quentin. Callahan and Angel were both long-shots. He could hear Quentin's bluff bragging: "I called Callahan in as soon as I heard Mirtallev was dead. And when the girl came into play, I saw the possibilities in her. That's why I pulled strings to get her into Theta where I could use her. They were both marked merchandise - but I've always had an eye for potential." 

Through the years Callahan had picked up some understanding of his supervisor. He had asked Quentin once why he had the same office and the same job forever. 

"Middlemen don't get promoted, if we're any good," Quentin had answered. "We're too damn irreplaceable, so they give us commendations and bonuses instead. But I don't do this job for money. Only a moron would do it for money, when there's nothing to look forward to but sixteen-hour days, ulcers, and an early death." 

He understood what bound Quentin to his work. Unlike Callahan, it wasn't patriotism of any kind. Quentin didn't give a damn about any higher cause - not America or justice or world peace. He didn't give a damn what his intel was used for. When Callahan had passed on his information about probable war crimes in Arbeztan, Quentin had relayed the bosses' order to do nothing and avoid confronting Azor. Callahan was sure he hadn't lost a minute's sleep over that order - not when he passed it on, and not when Marchev was liberated and the truth came out. 

What Quentin thrived on was the raw electric current of the job. He lived in a tiny, sealed world of gladiatorial combat that never let up. He and all the other middlemen were locked in competition against each other, made or broken from minute to minute by how well their assets performed, how well they could come through on whatever the bosses demanded. "Nobody knows what it's like," Quentin told him. "It's a blood sport, and there's just a handful of people who play it or know it or give a damn about it. But winning at it is all that matters." 

"Can't say for sure," he told Theresa. "A month, maybe. Or more. Or less." 

"I'm happy for you. I'm happy you've got something to look forward to again." 

"A few months ago you offered to divorce me. Now it's looking like that won't be necessary. You're stuck with me for life." 

"Oh, that's pretty smug of you. Are you really so sure of me? How boring we've become in our domestic bliss. No more uncertainties like back when you had to work to win me." 

"So I've won you; is that what you're saying? The long fight is over? Thank God, because that was exhausting." 

She shoved him. "If you get reinstated," she said, "if they post you overseas, tell me this. Would you want me to come with you?" 

He was smart enough to know that the correct answer had two parts. "I know you've got your work," he said. "I couldn't ask you to leave it. But if I had my choice, yes - I've thought of it, you and me together all over the world. There wouldn't be a government in hell that could withstand us." Their driver would open the door and they'd step out of the car together, a handsome couple. She'd wear the green dress he liked on her, her hair up and earrings glittering beside her slim neck. He'd introduce her to everyone. _This is my wife._ Later he'd watch her maneuver and mingle. They'd catch each other's eye from across the room. When they got back to their kitchen of their government suite - Oslo, Nairobi, Caracas - they'd deconstruct all the conversations they'd had and make fun of everyone they'd met. Every day, she'd be an anchor to come home to, and every night would be just like this.

She pressed her chin against him like a cat seeking warmth. "I've been thinking about it, myself. It would be good to travel again. But to be honest, Jamie, I wouldn't be happy being just an FSO wife. I need a life of my own and something to challenge me. And I like my job. Leaving it would be a sacrifice I just can't make." 

The fine tips of her collarbones were visible at her neckline. It had been Mexico when he'd kissed them for the first time as they lay on a blanket by the sea and he'd thought he knew everything that lay ahead, everything the tide could possibly wash in. He'd been a boy of twenty-three with the usual ideas about glamour and globe-trotting and passionate sex that would never burn out. He didn't look ahead and ask himself about their distant future: would they ever have children; would they ever make a home; would they have a bumpy road; would they someday grow old? He had loved her in the present moment and hadn't cared about the long game. At twenty-three, he couldn't count past twenty-four. It hadn't really hit him what it would mean to marry a career woman with ambitions. He'd never been the sole decision maker in the family like his dad had been. She had a hard sparkle and a flinty brain and she was great to talk to, but other men got to arrange their lives and families the way they wanted. Other wives put their husbands first. 

He'd thought she'd would too. He'd counted on coming first with her, ahead of her job, even though he hadn't admitted it to himself. 

She spoke in the dark. "Don't take it too hard. Ask me about the flex plan." 

"Flex plan?" He could not work up much interest. 

"Flex plan. The one where Vision, recognizing my genius, gives me four months a year to do my work long-distance. From anywhere in the world." 

"What?" 

"Yes." 

"As in, anywhere? Four months?" 

"Not consecutive, though. I'd have to schedule my away-time around the missions. I'd probably be able to take four- or five-week blocks away from Washington. But I'd still have my current six-week leave as well. So, if you do the math, that could put you and me in the same time zone for about twenty-five weeks per year." 

"You're saying you've already looked into it? You've already asked?" 

"Of course." 

Of course she had. That was his wife. "And during the other weeks--" 

"I'll stay here and reconfigure the rest of the house behind your back, write a novel, learn German, and run us into debt like you've never imagined." 

He rolled over and put a knee on each side of her, took her hands in his and pinned her against the bed. She arched her back. Her lips came open, and he kissed her neck and mouth in the full thrill of possession. 

.

There was no wind the next evening when he met Angel in the still of the forest. They walked together. He warmed her up with an invented story that got her laughing, about the petty tyranny of Washington's bureaucracy and his position as hapless victim on the middle rungs. The story was more or less about Elizabeth, who was turning on him lately. She had torn apart his last report on Arbeztan. He was fairly sure she was envious that he was on the cusp of escaping M.A. while she would die here.

"Listen," he said. "I want to talk to you about the Karth. America wants to make overtures to them." He explained to her about the mines, the idea for approaching Jaro. He slanted it the way he knew she'd like hearing it. Riches and autonomy for the Karth, while America stuck a knife into Arbeztan's back. "So," he prompted. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Angel said, frowning. "I don't know anything about mines." 

Callahan was overly aware of the gummed length of the wire secured to the skin over his breastbone. Some of his chest hairs had gotten tangled in the adhesive. At the other end of the wire was Cabrese, earpiece in, leaning back in his chair. "We'd just need to talk to Jaro, because he's a leader of the Karth. We'd ask him to bring the other Karth leaders in on the negotiations. We'd hope to build a consensus we could take to the Arbezi government. At last the Karth would be heard as a unified voice. The US would back them. Sokhrina would have a hard time saying no to us." 

She looked at him dubiously, so he pressed on. "Those minerals in the ground are useless to the Karth as they lie under the ground, but they're a bargaining chip that could buy Karth autonomy and wealth. It would still be Karth land. The US just wants to lease mining rights." 

"Well, you won't find Jaro. If he's still alive, he's not going to come out into the open to meet a pack of American strangers." 

"Yes. That's an obstacle. We'd have to hire a guide. Someone who knows their way around the mountains." 

He followed her gaze. In the grass, a beetle was trundling across a leaf. "That's our land," she muttered. "Those are our mountains you people will want to blast holes in, and they've been wrecked enough by outsiders. Maybe we'd rather be left alone than have an American corporation laying down roads through our villages." 

"If that's the way the Karth see it, they can say so and that will be the end of it. But they should at least hear the offer and choose for themselves. The thing is, though, the Arbezi government is going to want those mines and the riches they'll bring. They're likely to send solders back up the mountains soon to secure the region so they can do what they want, take what they want. They'll blast holes in the rock, and they'll also blast any Karth who get in their way. Then it will be too late. The Karth will see no profits from it, only more war." 

She stood up abruptly. "A pack of clumsy foreigners, stomping into a land where you're not wanted. What do you imagine - that the simple natives will welcome you and fall to their knees in gratitude? If you people get anywhere near Jaro, you'll probably be shot at. That's our version of diplomacy, in the Kar-Paval." 

"Like I said. We'd need a guide. Someone who could help us find him. A Karth who speaks the language and knows the lay of the land and could make the introductions." 

She looked away into the trees. 

"It's a chance for them. A good chance. Maybe their only chance." He saw no choice but to simply say it. "The thing is, a Karth guide will be hard to find." 

She whipped her head around and glared at him. "You don't have to spell it out." She was rigid, her lips drawn back. "The answer's yes." 

"Yes?" He wasn't sure she meant what he wanted her to mean.

"That's what I said. Yes. I'll do it."

"You'll-- be the guide?" 

"I don't have a choice. Do I."

"It'll be safe. You'd be protected by a great team. Anything you need, they'll be right there to help you." 

"I said yes," she repeated. Her lower lip was quivering. "I don't know anything about diplomats and mines. All I know is the Kar-Paval. And Jaro. I know him. I know what the Karth have suffered, and I know I have to do what's right." 

She had gone over so easy that he was almost at a loss. "Don't you have any questions? I haven't explained the details to you yet." 

"Doesn't matter."

Suddenly she was no longer an asset to be leaned on. She was only Angel, who he'd brought out of Marchev and who would soon back to the land that had taken her innocence. "Do you think you're strong enough?" he asked quietly.

"That doesn't matter either." 

"Hey." He felt unusually clumsy and unsure of himself. "Are you sure about this? I mean, are you all right?" 

"Of course." She rose. Her eyes were staring; there was too much white in them. "You should take me back to my apartment now." 

He walked her back. She needed some time, he decided. He shouldn't push, or work on her with promises and reassurances. Just a little time, and she'd be fine. 

At her door she turned to him. She was struggling to say something. It was all for the best; that was the main thing. She wouldn't regret it. "I always knew," she said tightly. "In the mountains - I knew what to expect. There are mines, you see. Along some of the paths, and there are fields we can't use anymore, where kids have been blown up. The Arbezi army did that to us; it was way back, they say, during my father's time. So I always knew what my end would be. I knew I'd step on a mine some night, get my legs blown off at the femur. It would be ten below zero and I'd die screaming." She looked at the Virginia hills. "Always did want to get it over with." 

"It won't be like that. I promise." 

"No. Of course not." She smiled raggedly. "Aw, hell. Don't look like that. It's a smart plan. How could any girl say no?"

 _You don't have to do it_ , he wanted to say. But he remembered the wire on his chest.

"You know," she said. "If it weren't for you I'd still be in Boston. Licking envelopes, transcribing sermons. I was actually pretty good at that. But, don't worry. I'll be good at this, too." 

Suddenly she stepped into the gap between them. She put herself so close that their chests were nearly touching. Before he could react, she took his face between her hands and stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. 

After one split second of frozen horror, he kissed her back. The wire was pressing hard against his chest. It was the worst possible turn of events. He pulled away slightly and she got the hint, but even though she broke off the kiss she looped her arms around his neck and laid her head against his shoulder. What a mess. He didn't want to hurt her. And the truth was, she felt too good in his arms. She was more solid than Theresa and he gripped her hard. She had clung to his arm in the early days at Marchev when she could barely stand. He'd watched her sleep and he'd held her hand but he'd never had all of her like this, under his protection where he could keep her safe from every threat in the world.

It had to stop, though. He put his hands on her shoulders and edged back. 

"Sorry," she said, releasing him. "Oh, hell. God, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm sorry." 

"Don't be sorry. You know I, I like it too. I want to. It's just, I can think of forty-eight reasons why we shouldn't." He could feel the warm imprint of her against his torso and the taste of her lips on his. Of all the ways the company had fucked him over, jerked him around so his life and choices weren't his own, this was certainly up there. The trouble four years ago had been the worst, but this was definitely up there.

"Only forty-eight?" She gave a brave, wounded little laugh. 

"Well, that's off the top of my head. You can probably think of more." 

She toed the ground. "It's all right. I was just being an idiot." 

"You're amazing," he told her. "I admire you so much. You're brave and you're amazing." 

"I used to be something else. Normal. You'd never believe it, probably. I wore lip gloss, went to parties. Went home with boys. I didn't have any scars at all. Just an average girl." 

"You? Nah. You were never average. A wolf-girl. Like I told you one time." Jesus, it was pretty much all fucked up and he had to make the best of it. 

Her lips were still curved in a bitter smile. "Listen to me," he said. Forget the wire, forget who was listening in and how they'd judge him and blame him for letting her get too close. "When you come back, I'd like to help you get a permanent position here. A permanent apartment, if you want, in one of the nearby cities that will be convenient for the commute. It'll work out. It'll be good. I'll take care of everything."

She touched his cheek. "You always have."

She didn't say goodbye. She pulled herself into her apartment as if it were sucking her through the open door. He heard the bolt slide home.

.

In Cabrese's office, he stripped the wires off. He knew already what Cabrese would say. He was vaguely sickened. He'd see it through, though. 

"She made the best choice," Cabrese said. "This trip is her last goodbye. It'll set her free." 

"I didn't even have to lean on her. She doesn't want to go but, you heard her - she can't say no." 

"She'll be in good hands. She'll be taken care of through the whole thing." 

"She fucking better be." 

"The thing is," Cabrese said. "She'll need to focus now. She can't have distractions. I don't want anything to shake her concentration as she gets ready." 

Callahan raised his head, opened his mouth to protest. But the words died on his lips. Of course, this would be Cabrese's next move. He'd known, hadn't he? This was Cabrese's show - Callahan was the disposable man, the pinch-hitter brought in to bunt then subbed out of the game as soon as he got on base. 

"Right," he muttered.

"You're worried about her. She'll feel it, and it will undermine her confidence." 

"For Chrissake," he burst out. "I won't worry." 

"And she kissed you. That's a problem." 

"You really are so fucking predictable." 

"I'm not just thinking of her. I want things to work out for you. I'd like to see you reinstated when all this is over. You've got Quentin in your corner. Don't blow it for yourself. Not now, after all the work you've put in." 

"He's in my corner? He told you that?" 

"He didn't have to say it." Cabrese smiled. "She'll be well taken care of. I'm better at my job than you ever give me credit for." 

He was willing to believe it.


	32. angel.  Thinking,

Alone in her apartment. She stood at the window. Dark outside. Thinking.

She'd told Jamie a story that evening, about a night raid Jaro had led against an encampment of Arbezi that were sheltering under an overhanging cliff on a rainy night. Now she was thinking of Jaro as she last saw him at Marchev, the night he left. "I'm leaving, sister," he told her. "Me and Rutan and Zhimo. We got a message out, and we've got friends picking us tonight once we get out on the road. You'll join us when you're better." Only she hadn't. And she didn't know if was alive, if any of them were. But they'd killed the monster, Azor Mirtallev. The fight was going on without her. And maybe she wasn't good for it anymore; maybe she wasn't strong enough. Maybe Marchev had beaten down her courage even though it hadn't done that to Jaro or the others who survived. Who had survived worse than she had.

The mountains were cold and dangerous. She liked it better here. She couldn't imagine how she'd lived there, even gotten used to it: to frigid nights with her collar up and her chin tucked into it, hunkering beside the other men, waiting for something to happen, something that might kill them all before they could kill first. Running messages for Jaro, clambering through the steep wooded slopes with always the understanding that assuming a bullet didn't get her, it would be a mine. That was just how it was. It was fate that she'd die soon and she didn't mind, because it was taken for granted by all of them. There wasn't any other choice for her back then: she'd known she had only the one road to walk down. She was Karth and her old life was closed to her.

Now everything was different.

She lay on her bed and pulled the notebook out from under her pillow. She'd assembled a little pile of important objects there: The knife, though she used it less now. The notebook and a pen. The packet of letters from Jamie that she had hoarded so carefully in Boston. The funny thing was that in Boston, she had clung to them as a reminder that someone in the world knew her name. At Theta, she has started rereading them as a reminder that she had once lived in Boston on Dartmouth Street and ridden the T and worked in a church. Those years of her life seemed to be slipping out of reach. In retrospect they were developing a rosy tinge. Remember the smell of the church and the glistening bodies of the Brazilians leaping and crashing against each other on the scruffed field every sunset. Had that been her life? She remembered hating it but couldn't summon the feeling anymore.

She wasn't in the mood to write the next installment of Carana's story. But htere was payment to be made. She owed so many people, and if she was shirking her duty to the Karth, she should at least try to live up to the memory of Carana. If it was hard, well, good. That was part of her punishment.

journal entry....

There was a moment coming to her, one she trembled happily at the thought of. Three evenings after her conversation with Jamie, that moment came. She walked alongside Miranda up the stairs of the yellow house and entered the office where Cabrese waited.

"Hi," he said. "How's the week been?"

"Same as always, sir."

"Any injuries to report?"

"No, sir."

"Anything else on your mind?"

How do you say something so big it fills you and like a mountain of water pressing against a faulty dam, and the least crack could tear the dam to matchsticks in a torrent? "Something's happening," she said. "Something I didn't see coming."

"Ah. Well. Maybe you should tell me what it is." 

"It's-- it's a job. Jamie asked me to do it. There's some people he knows, government people, and he wants me to play tour guide for them. He asked me to go with them to Arbeztan and take them up into the mountains. There's no one else who can do it. And it would help the Karth."

The thing about Dr. Cabrese was that he always understood. And she always knew he understood, even when he didn't say a word - it was in the way he looked at her. He was looking at her that way now, and his understanding flayed her so close to the bone that it was almost unbearable. They belonged to each other, here in their private world where she laid open her bloody chest to reveal her organs, and he looked on the raw mess with compassion. "Guess what I told him," she whispered - and the dark current that joined them was warm enough and deep enough and dangerous enough to drown in. 

"I don't have to guess," he said. "You said yes. It's a matter of honor to you. Not a job you could turn down."

"Yeah." She licked her dry lips. "It's one of those things. You know: one of those things where it looks like there's a choice, but there's no choice really." She was silent a moment. "You told me once that I should do it. Go back there one last time. Settle my debts."

He nodded. "It's what you need."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Are you scared?"

"Nah." But the answer was so ludicrous that she laughed weakly at herself. "Well, possibly. Like, just a little. A tad. A smidge. Not any more than that."

"If it's government work, they'll send trained people to make sure no one gets hurt."

"You know the climb isn't the only thing I'm worried about." He did that trick of waiting her out, not helping her, and finally she managed to say it. "It's the other thing. Facing everyone again. Everyone I left. Everyone who's still alive up there."

"You're afraid they won't welcome you back?"

"Why would they? I was wrong to let Jamie take me to America; I always knew that in my heart. I was Karth, you know. I was as Karth as anyone, and I fought with them, and I swore I'd always fight with them. I made that promise. Then I left. I broke my word." 

"All you can do now is the brave thing. Face them head on."

"I know. I figured that out, already."

He came out from behind the desk. Standing in front of her, he put his hands on her shoulders; his strength flowed into her. "You really are something, Miss Morjo," he said softly. She wanted to cry, but instead she bent her head to accept the benediction.

He asked, "Do you know when you leave?" 

"I don't know. I don't know, and they're not telling me anything and I don't ask anything. But's gotta be soon. Snow comes to the high peaks by October, and I won't know the land well after it's under snow. It'll be hard going, too. I don't like the cold."

"Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"No more than usual. Most of the time, I manage not to think about what's coming. I'm pretty good at repressing unpleasant facts. Years of practice, you know."

He smiled fondly. "I'd noticed that."


	33. carana breaks angel's heart

journal entry

_In March the snow melted and revealed little rims of ice on the edge of the Vltava. We'd just gotten our stipend for the month. I was still hoarding all the money I could because I still hoped we were going to Italy together. But it had been months since we'd talked about it. I was afraid to ask but I had to know. I knew what she'd say. I wanted to make her say it out loud._

_She said it. She apologized over and over, and I could see she meant it. She was sorry to break her word to me but not sorry enough that she'd actually keep it. "He'll help me stay in Prague this summer," she said. "He says the kids are learning so well with me, he'll give me a job as nanny so they can get really fluent."_

_I said, "Wow. That's nice." But I couldn't help adding that it would be kind of awkward to have an affair with a guy right in front of his wife and kids. I tried to say this with a sugarcoating of supportiveness but I don't think I pulled it off too well. Carana gave me a look that was on the verge of being angry or suspicious or maybe even hurt. So I rushed on. "She won't figure it out, though. It'll be great. I'm glad for you." I sounded like a corpse talking._

_I knew I had no right to be sad and no right to blame her. I knew she was the normal one. This was what girls were supposed to do: fall in love and swing up in the back of the saddle behind some prince and leave their friends to wave goodbye. She was normal and I wasn't, because I had loved her too much. I wasn't even a nice person. I was supposed to be happy for her and instead I had a burnt hole where my heart used to be._

_Carana said, "I'm really, really sorry about Italy. Maybe someone else will go with you. You should ask Marian or Steve."_

_And that was the real gut wound: Carana thinking that what was between us was nothing special and any random acquaintance could be plugged in in her place._


	34. journal:  they plan to go to vuro...

Spring Break started on a Friday night. We hadn't made any plans to leave the city. I knew she had to hang around Prague so she'd be available for Jiri any time he whistled for her and I wasn't in any mood to go away on my own. I was home alone, trying to sleep because it was stupid to wait up. The clock inched toward one a.m, and then toward two. She could be hurt somewhere. She wasn't though, and I was angry at myself for worrying about her, when I knew she wasn't wasting her evening worrying about me. 

Around three o'clock, I heard her heels striking the stone steps on the landing. Carelessly, so I knew she was drunk. I had just enough time to flip off the bedroom light. She flung open the front door and bumped against something on her way to the bedroom, and cursed softly and giggled. Then her shadow bent and straightened and cloth made soft rustles as she got out of her clothes. 

"You awake, Ange?" A shoe hit the floor, then a second one. 

I considered my options. "Mmm. Halfway. Did you have fun?" 

She gushed about a club he'd taken her to, where the maitre d' knew him. They'd danced to corny old-timers' music. I didn't ask if the waiters also knew his wife. I thought it. But I didn't say it. 

"What about you?" she asked. "Did you see Steve?" There had been a TeachPrague party that night at Walt and Nathan's place and I hadn't wanted to go but had made myself. I'd only stayed twenty minutes, which seemed enough to establish that I had a social life. I had seen Steve. He had flirted but I hadn't been in the mood. I would have dated him if the timing were ever right, but I hadn't wanted to before because Carana was always more fun than any guy. And I didn't want to now because I was too sad. 

"Marian likes him. She can have him if she wants. He's super-nice, but it doesn't mean much to me." 

She told me she didn't understand how I could be so un-possessive of someone. Which was ironic. "Hey," she went on. "Listen. Something happened tonight." I made a silent prediction: Jiri had said he loved her, that he'd divorce his wife for her. But it turned out I was wrong. "He asked me to do something. Something kind of strange. He said he'd pay me if I did it." My first, joyous thought was that he wanted a threesome with a hooker. "It's nothing pervy," she said. She had read my mind. She still knew me that well. "It's sort of a job. A trip." 

I thought it must be drugs. I was glad, because I was pretty sure she'd leave him if he were an international drug dealer. 

"His ex-wife lives in another country. Arbeztan. They split up ten years ago when he married Anna, and she took their two boys went back home. The boys are teenagers now. He hasn't seen them in years. He's been trying to get them to move to Prague, but the ex won't listen. He asked me to travel there and talk to them. He says Arbeztan is getting dangerous. The ex-wife is an ethnic minority, it's called a Zarmar or something. There's riots and demonstrations against them lately and he's afraid his sons will get hurt or will have to go into the army. He's been calling his ex, writing her letters. He wants to bring her here and give her an apartment so his kids will be safe." 

Manzari, she meant. The ex-wife was Manzari, people my father used to talk about. They were like the Karth, perpetual victims under the boot of the Arbezi. "But why would Jiri want you to be the one to go?" 

"His ex-wife hates him because of Anna. That's why she won't believe his letters or take his phone calls. Someone has to go in person, he says. He'd give me cash for her. And he'd fix up citizenship papers and I could bring her those to prove his good intentions, and show her the lease he's going to get on an apartment, in her name." 

Jiri had become the center of her world. I pointed out that men didn't usually send their mistresses to sweet-talk their ex-wives.

"He says that's why I should go. She'll be glad he's cheating on Anna like he cheated on her. It'll make her feel better about moving to Prague. He could pay one of his friends to do it, but she'd trust me more because I'm harmless. She'll know I'm not going to kidnap her kids. And he trusts me. With the money. With his children. He begged me." 

I told her that the whole thing sounded crazy. 

"I knew you'd say that. That's why I don't even want to tell you things anymore. I know you don't approve; I can see it every time you look at me. But, Ange, you don't know him. He's got such a good heart. He's smart and romantic and he's just so good. I mean, look what he's doing for those kids. He wanted to keep them here and be a father to them, but the ex was vindictive so she stole them. And he forgives her. He still wants to help her come to Prague with the boys and be safe." 

"I'll tell you something," she went on. "You know why I don't want to go? It's not just because I'd be scared. It's because, the truth is... I don't actually want those boys to move to Prague." Her voice caught thickly. "I don't want them living two blocks from him. I don't want him spending all his time with them, getting to know them. I already have to share him with two kids and a wife. And God, it's killing me. You know? It's killing me that this is all I get of him, the little crumbs around the edges when he has time for me. He says he loves me and he wants to be with me and I know he means it - but he can't tell Anna because he doesn't want to hurt her or the kids. And I don't want to hurt them either. They're good people and they don't deserve to lose him. So I have to accept that we're a secret. But I love him, Ange, so much it's like torture - I thought I loved Chris, but I never felt like this. Sometimes at night when you're sleeping, I tiptoe into the other room and sit at the table in the dark, because I can't stop crying and I don't want to wake you." 

Seawater entered my body, turning me fish-cold and bloodless. I stared up into the dark. On the ceiling I imagined patterns of pulsing color. Something terrible was happening inside me. All my flesh was dying, bit by bit, like a million lights winking out one after another. 

"You'd do it, Ange," she said. She sniffled and rubbed her face with the hem of her sheet. "I know you. You'd do it in a second, wouldn't you, because you're so good and so brave. You don't get scared. If it were you, you'd go to Arbeztan in a heartbeat and bring back those kids. You'd charge right in. But me - I'm different. I'm not a very nice person, and I'm not strong like you. I'm not a good Christian either, like I used to think." I could tell she was crying. "Poor Jiri. If he'd been smart, he'd have asked you to go instead." 

She still saw my good points. She was still generous even though I'd turned mean and tight and bitter. She was a better friend than I was and it made me ashamed. I wanted to go to her side and reassure her, but I couldn't even do that. She had sailed off without me to a land where I couldn't follow: the country of grownups, it seemed to me, where women murmured in heavy tones about the men they loved. I didn't belong there. I didn't have the right kind of visa to cross the border. 

"It's hell, you know?" she muttered. "All the time, I'm scared of losing him. What do I do, Ange?" 

The lump in my throat burned. I was pretty sure she had a lump like mine. That's what we were that night: two burning lumps of pain, side by side in a shared bedroom but thinking very different things. I said, "I guess you gotta do what you think is right." 

After that, pitiful gasping noises came from her side of the room. They went on for a while. Finally there were just hiccups and little hitches. Then a deep sigh and regular breathing. She'd fallen asleep. I was still awake. 

_I could see what I was to her: the sturdy receptacle that caught her tears. I knew that was normal. She was normal and I was not. I'd done my duty the best I could for weeks - screwed on the smile and said, "I'm happy for you." This was the female version of valor. It didn't look like much compared to the male version, which usually involved battle cries and dying comrades. But it hurt worse, maybe. It was like putting on a cloak you knew in advance was dipped in poison, and wearing it with a smile while your flesh got charred to the bone._

_I was better at the other kind of valor. Carana was right: Jiri should have had a girlfriend like me. But like all men, he was attracted to women who were charming and full of feminine wiles. He didn't care that he was dating someone who'd be useless in a crisis. I considered this poor planning on his part._

_If he'd asked me. I'd be packed already, gone already, riding out that very night for far-off Vuro. I'd arrive in time to see a mob of angry townspeople gathering with torches and pitchforks to denounce the Manzari. I'd arrive on the ex-wife's doorstep in a thunderstorm, wind whipping up my hair and she'd open the door a crack, fearfully. I'd be strong; I'd have the papers and the money in my hand. She'd call her sons to her side. "Boys, pack quickly. This girl has come to save us."_

_I'd bring them back to Prague. Jiri would be stunned and grateful. The boys and their mother would go off to their new apartment. Jiri would go along to help them get settled in their new country. He'd have two families, suddenly: two suspicious women who hated each other, two homes, two sets of needy children. Carana would clutch at his sleeve._

_A war was coming to Arbeztan and a family was in danger. It was a time for heroes. Theseus would go. Hercules would go. Jason, Perseus, Orpheus, Meleager, and all the rest would go. It was a test, I told myself. It was a challenge. It was a matter of honor._

_And so I did a thing I can't take back. I crept out of bed and crossed the room and felt for Carana's shape beneath the blankets. "Cari," I said. "Wake up."_


	35. angel being prepared for mountain trip.  confesssion?

Angel, running

Thinking

Things were happening fast. She had come not from the language building but an office in the big front building - Central. She'd been shown maps. Men in suits asked her about the climate. Miranda stayed close to her and looked at her too often, like she was nervous about her mental state. She told them that she didn't know the lower slopes well. She had only been up them that first time, in the dark. They assured her it would be all right.

She pounded along. Her feet pounded rhythmically over the rough path. She glimpsed the white flash of Miranda's t-shirt up ahead. The pace was moderate; she ached, but no more than she was used to. Her body endured. Her mind traveled ahead.

The thing was done. She had said yes and couldn't take it back.

Callahan had taken care of her since they'd met. She'd been weak and fragile and he'd been strong and now she had a chance to stop being that pathetic girl and beat back the thousand humiliations of her weakness. She'd looked in the mirror that morning and seen the mirror reverse of what she'd seen the day she'd left with Carana. _You were a rugged girl, once._ And of course she knew her duty and knew what honor demanded. She couldn't say anything but yes.

Doubt and hesitation flooded in only later, after she had said yes. Terror mounted last of all. 

She'd worn sneakers last time, and they'd saved her life. She'd wear them again. Was she free and brave, or was she a stupid girl in the grip of fate? She suspected she was no smarter than a salmon leaping upstream against a waterfall for no reason other than instinct. All right then. That's what she was. She didn't have a choice.

She had boarded the train to Vuro. She had gotten off. She had made promises she had to die for.

That was the one comfort she could cling to in the face of her growing dread: she had no choice. So if she stepped on a landmine and died horribly, it would not be her fault. Not another wrong choice but simply her fate that was written long before. 

She told herself this forcefully. 

Miranda had stopped and was waiting for her around the next bend. "You're leaving us soon, I hear. Do you feel ready?" It was a departure for Miranda, who never asked her questions. Things were changing. 

"If I am or if I'm not, it doesn't matter." 

Miranda hesitated. Then she motioned to the stacked grey boulders alongside the trail. "You want more practice, or you want a rest? Just for tonight?" (Angel sees something in Miranda she's never seen before. Compassion, maybe concern. One woman to another on the eve of Angel's dangerous journey. Or maybe M says something hard to interpret like "I want you to succeed" - and we don't know, is it because she has affection for the subject or becasue she wants her own job of training Angel to bear fruit?" So, a character moment between them. Angel realizing she doesn't know the first thing about Miranda, who has shown no personality to her. Miranda works for Dr. Cabrese. But who is Miranda, as a person? Maybe Angel for the first time thinking of someone beside herself and what she needs/wants/fears. Realizing that if she comes back, she'd like to get to know Miranda in another way. Like, as a friend. They're the same age. Maybe they have a conversation here: A asks M about herself, and M quits being a professional long enough to reveal her own vulnerabilities. A likes her but realizes she can't think about that, she can't make attachments at Theta when she secretly doesn't expect to return.) 

She had climbed up from Vuro on a chilly morning, hand over hand up the slopes, clinging to young trees that grew out of crevices in the rocks, or to weeds, or roots, or cracks in the rock face that slashed her hands and made her bleed. She had climbed without feeling or thinking. All she had seen in front of her was what she was running from: the woods besides the tracks and the dark shape of Carana before her. 

She walked to the foot of the nearest boulder. She put her hands on the first gripping place and heaved herself up: the first step, and then the next, and then the next. She was not quite numb, but the feeling was in her: a distance as if sensation came to her from far away. but her limbs held her even though they shook. She moved sideways like a crab along the rock. Miranda moved below, her hands up protectively to guard Angel's head in case she fell. But she didn't fall. "You're stronger than you think," Miranda said. "You'll be fine." 

She nodded. Miranda was right that she'd gotten stronger, but she was coaching herself not to care whether she lived or not. She was trying to be philosophical. She deserved to die; she'd already lived much longer than some people. There were plenty of bones on the mountains already and her life wasn't any more special than anyone else's. Anyway, nothing was up to her. She'd play her part and walk the road to wherever it led.

In her heart, she wanted to live. But she tried hard to convince herself it would be okay if she didn't. It would be better, even, because it would be justice. 

There were more meetings. She pored over satellite photos and maps. When she wasn't doing that, there was still the language center, but the urgency had gone out of Cath's demeanor. Angel got the feeling that the work on the Karthic self-study program had moved into a new phase and she was no longer especially needed. She wasn't a linguist, after all. She didn't have the technical expertise Cath had. The new phase was being run by Cath, who was supervising computer people in the hands of tech people and Cath herself, and they worked together while Angel was off at her new meetings. The linguist spoke fluent Karthic now. Her accent was silvery, and Angel marveled at how easily Karthic words rolled off her friend's tongue. 

She turned an ankle running in mud. Miranda took her to the health clinic. After ice and an ace wrap, she sat alone with her foot propped up. She could see Miranda on the phone through the window. "You'll have to rest that foot this afternoon," she said when she returned. "Spend the rest of the day here in the clinic so they can watch the swelling." 

"I'm fine. I can rest at home." 

Miranda, a bit embarrassed. "Dr. Cabrese's orders." 

She understood. She was important to them. They needed her intact. And maybe they didn't want her to be left alone. 

Dr. Cabrese was keeping her close now. She met with him almost every weekday evening. The meetings were still brief. "You're ready," he told. "You'll have no responsibilities except guiding the team to Jaro and interpreting the negotiations. The team leaders will do everything else." 

"All right." 

"You're nervous?" 

It was no good talking about it. You saw your fate and you went to it. You didn't gab about it beforehand. Theseus walked the road in his father's sword and sandals. Hercules faced the hydra. They didn't snivel.

"I'll be okay."

Besides the staring possibility of her death, she had more immediate fears. Jaro might be furious when he saw her. She'd abandoned them all for a soft bed in an American hospital, and a country of air conditioning and grocery stores. What if he yelled at her and called her a coward in front of all the men? What if they threw her out and she had to turn to the Americans and explain she was disgraced and of no use to them? 

"Don't look ahead," Dr. Cabrese counseled her the next day. "Every day will take care of itself. Then it will be over and you'll be home." 

She wanted to ask him about Jamie, who had stopped showing up on the path. She hadn't seen him in weeks. She wanted to know if he'd gone away on another trip for his work, but she was afraid to ask because she knew what she'd learn. He hadn't gone away. He was simply avoiding her. She'd ruined everything by being an idiot. A desperate, slutty idiot of the kind who embarrasses herself with married men who aren't interested. 

The men from the planning committee unrolled maps on the table. "Suppose you start climbing here," they asked, pointing. "Are you familiar with this terrain? Is it accessible?" She gazed at the maps helplessly. If she were on the mountain she'd know her way around in the dark, even, but she couldn't recognize the landmarks in the aerial photos they showed her. She could tell they thought she was incompetent. "I could build a model," she said at last. "If I had clay or play-dough. I could build it the way it looks on the ground, the paths and the caves and the villages and where Jaro is likely to be. But these pictures from the sky don't make any sense to me." The men exchanged looks.

Clay was delivered to her apartment that evening. They gave her time off to work on it. She sculpted what she remembered, starting at ground level where the train tracks ran towards Vuro. She carved a rough semblance of the rock faces that she had clambered up on the first horrible tracks. She had shinned up and down them a few times during her months in the mountains, but she didn't know them well. As she moved higher, she began to put in more detail. She carved the southwestern face they called _u ryantji_ , the asscrack, where a sinuous path led between great boulders. With a knife and spoon and safety pin, she worked feverishly. She put in the crags and gorges. She wanted to build villages and collected pebbles from the woods to represent homes. For forested areas, she stuck twigs and pine needles into the clay. It was a kind of childish fun but it absorbed her. She resented Miranda's arrival because she didn't want to leave the clay. She could see the terrain more and more clearly as she shaped it with her hands. She had to get everything perfect. She liked doing the paths best, because those were what she knew. High up, the mountains had ridges you could run along, and dips and saddles and caves. She put in the best-used paths in the upper forests just below the tree line. She wanted to mark the danger zones - the mined fields and paths that the Karth avoided - with red paint, but she didn't have any and she doubted it was something the store would carry. Red nail polish would work even better, but she didn't have any of that either. Cath probably did. She could run over to the language center and ask her. But Cath would want to know what it was for, and Angel had gotten the definite sense that her upcoming trip was a confidential government matter, not something she wanted to explain to her linguist friend.

After two days, she was done. The planning committee met and she set her work down in front of them. Again the aerial maps came out. They questioned her about features she'd put into her landscape. She explained it to them. "Here - this is the Korjan Gorge; it's the deepest one and it runs east-west. It connects to the Majie, here. And these two peaks, these are the Brothers - the eastern one is the taller. At the base is a cave system. Over here, this flank is wooded. There are no mines, and decent paths connecting to the paved roads of hte low hills. This is the best side for climbing without being seen." 

The men turned their photos, matching the features to her clay mountains. They talked to each other as if she weren't there. "She's talking about this region here. These are the two peaks she means. It's the northeast slope, more north than we'd thought. Tell Jenkins we need to reconfigure." 

Two days before she was to leave, she stood in Dr. Cabrese's office. She couldn't help thinking it might the last time she'd seen him. Everything on campus seemed that way: imbued with tragic nostalgia. "Day after tomorrow," he said. "How are you, really?"

She was never going to admit how hard she loved him. It was one of those things you died never saying. "You want the truth?"

"Be a change of pace, wouldn't it."

"Funny man." She searched for the right beginning. They could joke around some but she wasn't good at the serious stuff. "It's just, I'm not trying to be melodramatic or anything, but I can't shake the feeling that I won't come back from it."

"The men who are going with you know their job. They're the best there is. They'll protect you."

"Right, everyone keeps telling me that." She bit her lip. "There's something I have to say. Dark secret from my shady past. My last confession. Whatever."

"In that case, maybe you should sit down." He nodded toward the sofa behind her.

She hadn't sat on it in months. Ever since she lost the bet, she'd stood in front of him in this room. It felt strange to sit again. "You know that when I went to Arbeztan six years ago, I was traveling with someone. My roommate from Prague."

"Yes. I know about her."

"Yeah, of course you do. Well, the truth is--" Her face twisted. "I loved her, all right?" She spat the word, and they came out sounding wrong. "I don't mean-- It wasn't the kind of love anyone writes sonnets about. Not even Sappho; I don't mean it like that. She was my best friend; that's all."

"That's a lot."

"For me it was. For me it was everything." His kindness embarrassed her. He was too soft and it made her rigid. "The part that matters, the reason I'm telling you this, is that she has family in Idaho. Her father's a teacher. Her little brother loves lacrosse. Ever since I got back, I've always known I was supposed to go see them. Ring their doorbell one day and tell them who I am, how sorry I am. Tell them how it happened. But of course I never had the nerve for it - and now maybe it's too late." 

"When you come back, you can go see them. I can help you make the arrangements. Or Jamie can." 

_When you come back._ She shook his words off. "Listen. Do you remember-- I told you a story once. Two friends willing to die for each other." He nodded. "But that wasn't the real story. That was the pretty lie. And before I go, I want to do better than a lie. So if I tell you-- will you listen?" 

"You know I will."

She had no fucking excuse for her cowardice. That's what he meant.

"All right. So. There were two friends." She took a breath. "That's how it started. That part was true. They loved each other; they were inseparable. And they went off together into a dangerous land. One of them had a taste for excitement. He wanted to be a hero; he thought that was his destiny. And he meant to protect his friend, too. He had excellent intentions."

"Go on."

"But he had a fatal flaw. A weakness of character. That was the seed of the tragedy."

Dr. Cabrese narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "I think I know this story."

"Probably." 

Her body had started shaking, as if in the throes of a private earthquake. She had no control over it.

"Keep going." 

"Off they went. Caught a fair breeze out of Athens and together they crossed the sea." She had to make sure he understood. She couldn't stand it if he didn't. "The wine-dark sea."

His gaze didn't waver. "The wine-dark sea," he said. "To Ilium, then." 

She nodded. "To Ilium," she agreed. "Yes."

His dark kind eyes held her together and pinned her in place. There was a terrible understanding between them. "This isn't Damon and Pythias."

"No. It's not."

"Achilles and Patroclus."

Her shaking redoubled, as if she were freezing but her skin felt no cold. He could see through her. He knew what she'd done.

"Don't be scared," he said. "It's all right."

"No."

"You were Achilles."

She could only nod. He didn't say anything more, and she knew she had to continue. "We argued on the train. So I sulked in my tent."

"What was your fatal flaw?"

Even this, she had to say, as pathetic as it was. "I couldn't stand to lose her. Too selfish." She wasn't like Damon, who would have danced with joy at his best friend's wedding. "I had always told myself I'd do anything for her. But when the time came." She looked toward the wall fixedly. "When the time came, I was no good. I took her there and didn't bring her back."

"You think that's your fault."

"I know it is, so don't fucking argue. Don't give me that don't-blame-yourself crap."

"I'm pretty sure you didn't kill her." 

"Oh, trust me. I did."

"And you want absolution."

"Condemnation, actually."

"You can't get either one of those from me. Or from anyone else. They come from God, or from within you. Do you believe in God?"

She gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Fuck, no."

All she could do was await his judgment. It was a long time coming. He just looked at her, while she hung on a thread, waiting, helpless. "All right," he said at last. "Here's what happens next. You go to the mountains. You keep your promise and you do the job. You do it well; you give it everything you've got - for the Karth and for Jamie Callahan. He's counting on you, you know. He believes you won't let him down. So you don't look forward or back, you just get it done. Then you come back and we'll deal with the rest."

He still wanted to pretend everything would work out for her. She recognized the words because she'd spun that same bullshit once herself. _We'll be back before spring break is over._ "Achilles knew his fate," she said. "The prophecy was that he'd never come back from Troy."

"That's true. But he fought anyway."

"That's what made him a hero."

"And now you're the same way. You'll go and you'll get it done, no matter what."

She had one last thing to say, and it came out in a blurt. "It's why I had to fight, you know? Because of Carana, because I lost her. So I had to make up for it." It was too much, the way he looked at her. She tried to back out of it with a joke. "You know, it's so damn obvious that a chest of weapons is better than a chest of trinkets. What kind of kid would choose the trinkets?" 

He smiled. "A girl not like you."

A girl like Carana, in fact. Angel closed her eyes because she was afraid she might crack apart like plaster. It was good here in this room. She wished she didn't have to leave. But when she opened them, nothing had changed: the dead were still dead and the truth was still true. "The journal you gave me. Notebook." She smiled ruefully. "There's some writing in it. It's for her family. If I don't come back, I want you to get it to them."

"You'll do that yourself." 

She shook her head. "Promise me."

He nodded. "All right. You know I promise. But I don't believe in fate or prophecies. You'll be back here soon."

"We'll see. I have to walk the road to wherever it leads. I'm out of choices, I think." She stood up. "If I don't come back, I won't see you again. I should say goodbye. I should thank you." She put out her hand. "Doesn't seem like enough, really."

She'd follow him anywhere. He'd raised her up from nothing. He'd never know what she felt for him. But then he gripped her hand hard, crushing her calluses and she held on with the strength he'd given her. Then he pulled her into his arms. He was warm and she was wrapped inside him and everything was perfect. He murmured, "You'll make me proud out there. You already have."

"Sir," she said.

Blindly she stumbled out.


	36. callahan pov:  worried about angel.  gets wife to help him learn the mission.  Horror.

Callahan stood on the back porch, looking out at his kingdom but seeing none of it.

He hadn't spoken to Angel in three weeks. He'd followed the rules. But he'd hung at the edge of her new life, enough to see what was going on. The company was winding her up, getting her aimed and cocked and ready. They'd left a shell of normalcy around her. She still went into the woods with Miranda every dawn and every evening, and she still crossed the quad and entered the language building every morning at eight-thirty sharp. The central parts of her day had been rearranged, though. She stayed at the language building only a short time, and when she left it wasn't for her own apartment. She'd come up the stairs to the upper quad, but instead of crossing to the line of residences that included Number 42, she turned left and entered McGarvey Hall.

He knew McGarvey. The first floor was all adminstrative but the second was used only occasionally, for overflow classes. One day he gave her ten minutes and then followed her inside. Guessing where she'd be, he'd gone up the back stairway and stood watching behind the door to get the lay of the place. A man he didn't recognize came down the hall and entered one of the rooms. Like all the others, it had a rectangular window in the wooden door. He stepped out and walked quietly, cutting his eyes to the left to look in that window as he passed by. She was in there. Two men were with her. They had their backs to him. That give him a measure of security, so he lingered on the periphery, leaning against the near wall. Angel was seated at a large table with papers in front of her. One of the men was leaning over her aggressively, while the other was talking at her from the side. Her head was bent and she was nodding. She looked tired and small. Her face was blank. 

The Virginia sunset cut low across his yard. He had other problems besides Angel. He had talked to Karel that morning. As the lies had rolled off his tongue, it struck him how amazingly easy it was for people to mislead each other. Trusting fools got taken in every minute. Poor Karel didn't have a clue what was being planned behind his back. Of course it wouldn't matter in the end, because Karel would come out of this just fine. He'd be hailed as a hero, even. All's well that ends well.

Angel, though.

He'd seen the mountains on his day trip into the north country. The black cliffs and ripped peaks were fearsome. Quentin had promised that she'd have help on the climb, and Quentin was right: she was indispensible. They couldn't let anything happen to her on the way up. They'd carry her if they had to. They'd get the job done and lay down the bones of an agreement and plans for a second meeting. The rest would be easy. They'd just have to get her down.

Except. Except, they wouldn't need her so much, on the way down.

This thought had struck him a week before and he'd put it out of his mind. They wouldn't get rid of an American citizen, not a useful one like Angel who spoke Karthic and knew Jaro Koslan. There would be more meetings with the Karth, and Angel would be important. So yes, it would be easy for them to get rid of her in the mountains, but there'd be no point to it. She was loyal, she was quiet, and she wouldn't make any trouble when she got back. The worst they'd do was keep her at Theta for a few extra months, to keep her under control while the deal with Karel was secured. After that, even if she talked a little it wouldn't matter much.

The trouble with the company, though, is that you never saw more than a fraction of their game plan.

Theresa stepped up beside him. She had slid the glass door open so quietly he hadn't heard it. "Should I ask what you're thinking? Or should I not?" He kissed her and shook his head.

"All right. Anything I can do to get your mind off it?" 

He'd like to ask her about her old work, her real work, equipping expeditions. If she were the company outfitter in Arbeztan, she'd know the inside info. She'd know the exfil plans. But she wasn't a company woman anymore. For four years, she hadn't been.

"Ter," he said. "Can I ask you something." 

"Sure," she said. "What?" But then she saw his face. She drew back. "What?" 

"Let's take a walk." 

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. He nodded. They went outside together and strolled along the sidewalk toward the shopping center. Not many people walked in this neighborhood. There was no one within earshot. "I'm going to ask you for something," he said. "I don't know if you can do it, but I'm pretty sure you're not going to like it." 

He told her. And he was right; she didn't like it at all. She stared for one instant only. Then she smoothed her face again. They kept walking. "For Chrissake," she murmured. "Are you out of your mind?" 

"I've never asked for anything like this before, and I've got reasons. You know I wouldn't ask if I had any better choice." 

"You _are_ out of your mind." 

"All I need is a name. Just tell me the name, and I'll figure out how to do everything else. Please, Ter. There's an expedition leaving soon. Someone could die." 

"Yes. That's usually the purpose of an expedition." 

"I mean, one of ours. One of ours could die."

"And that matters more? They take their chances. They know the risks when they sign on. I can't believe you'd ask me for this." 

A car swept by. He waited for it to pass. Then he held her hand. A nice married couple, talking about the kids and the minivan.

"This one doesn't know the risks. She's a civilian that they're using, and she's my responsibility."

"I can't help you. I took an oath. For Christ's sake."

"Suddenly you want to follow orders? I followed orders in Sokhrina and look what happened. I was a good company man there. You weren't happy. You resigned because the orders I followed led to Marchev. This time, I don't want to just follow orders - only this time, you're saying we should. So, which is it? Your orders or your conscience? All I need is the name. The expedition is up the Kar-Paval. Who's the outfitter in Arbeztan who could give me information?"

They had reached a small park. Two bronze children played on swings. Parents - mixed-race, the husband black and the wife a pale slim blonde - stood watching fondly. The woman's arm was around the man's waist. From the swingset a little girl shrieked, "Look at me, I'm going high!"

She led him behind a stand of trees. "If I give you the name, that won't be enough. If you want information you'll need to provide the code. Without the code she's not likely to tell you anything, even though you're attached to the company and even though you think you're charming enough to get around her. And if she reports you, we'll both burn."

"You said 'she.' You already know who it is." 

"Don't imagine I've given you a clue. Most of the outfitters are female, just like most of the field men are male."

"So you really won't help me."

It was hopeless. He had counted on her resistance and on his ability to wear her down, but he hadn't counted on a code. Now he would have to trust, and wait, and hope. And if anything happened to Angel, he'd have to live with it.

"The thing is," Theresa said. She put a hand on his arm. "The thing is: I know the code."

"What?"

"Yes."

"But they've changed it since you left. They must change it all the time."

"And yet. I know it."

A strange look was in her face. He couldn't decipher it. She had her secrets. How could she know the current code? All along, she had had secrets he hadn't guessed at. What was she involved in? He was swept back to the awe and passion he had felt for her in their first months of dating: she was brilliant and her brilliance carried her into heights he couldn't quite follow. He was still afraid of her brain. 

There were goosebumps along her arms. She was breathless, he saw - transported, her eyes shining. She still didn't look his way, but her fingers crept into his. "The name is Eddie Tsang. The code is mathematical. Memorize and repeat." She reeled off a string of numbers. He murmured them back and she nodded. She was on his side; she was all his - her dazzling mind and high ideals and her loyalty. The two of them were in this together.

He couldn't believe it was Eddie Tsang, though.

"Call her, but don't call from our home. Keep some distance between me and whatever you're about to do." Ter's eyes were on the playground. To anyone watching, they were a married couple, a couple still in love after decades, living the good life in an all-American wealthy suburb and now moving into the quiet security of middle age. An infertile couple, maybe, who came here to watch other people's children. "Give her the code. But be careful. If they catch you, they'll suspect me. But they won't be able to prove it unless you give me up." 

"Why are you helping me?"

She smiled fiercely. "My love. You don't know me at all, do you. Walk back to the house with me. Then go out. Do what you have to do."

That afternoon, he went to Theta. He would have rather called Edwina Tsang from a DC office but there was no place he had access to. Here, he could move freely. He got into one of the admin offices easily enough.

Eddie Tsang chirped hello.

"It's Jamie Callahan."

"Jamie! Good to hear from you."

He gave her the verification code. "Just a sec," she said. He heard her close her office door. "How can I help?" 

Was it really going to be this easy? "The expedition," he said. "I'm involved on the front end. One member of the group has physically limitations. Are we prepared for that?" 

"Of course. The affiliate briefed me. The order is already filled and will be at the drop site Wednesday at 0500. The delivery men are top-notch. Everything's in place, from boots to tech, special gear, hoists, spanners, all ready to go. Your girl's in good hands. No need to worry." 

She sounded so cheerful that Callahan wondered what he'd been worried about. He had let his imagination run away with him. 

"One more thing," Eddie said. "I already passed this on to the affiliate, but I'll say it to you as well. The original time projections were wrong. The correct projection is, there are only fourteen minutes guaranteed from the time our boys radio in, to the time the plane is overhead. We had to change airports, so the original seventeen-minute calculation is not accurate. Understand? Your team has to clear the blast radius in fourteen minutes. Copy back, please."

"Sorry? Please repeat that."

"Fourteen minutes from radio to payload drop."

"Got it. Fourteen minutes." 

"Good talking to you, Jamie. Hope to see you soon." 

Callahan put the receiver down quietly. He looked at it. There was a kleenex box on the desk and he used one to wipe the phone down, then the desk. He was having trouble managing simple thoughts. He couldn't put the parts of things together. He went to his own office, turned on his computer, opened to the Mirror. 

Wednesday morning, three days from now, the items would be at the drop point. That meant Angel would leave sometime tomorrow. They'd want a cushion of time on the ground to get from Sokhrina to the mountains. They would head out, Angel leading. She'd lead them to Jaro Kozlan. She'd have that reunion. There would be introductions made, and there'd be talk of mines and a new alliance. And when the moment was right, the American team would go a little ways off and make contact with company men. Fourteen minutes later, the plane would be overhead. Angel might hear the whine, She might look up, even, and see it. For one last minute she'd have no idea what it meant. 

Simontov would take credit for Jaro's death in front of his citizens and the Rachatan. The US would take credit for wiping out the separatist leadership in one brilliant tactical first strike. Quentin would take credit for providing the asset, Angel, who made the strike possible.

It was a good plan. It was safer and better than Quentin's risky proposition of forging and alliance with the Karth.

Quentin himself might not know the real plan. What about Cabrese - did he know? He had prepared Angel from the very beginning for the physical rigors of a mountain climb. _Get her ready to go back there,_ they might have told him. _Make her fit and make her loyal. We'll tell you when she's needed._

Angel would watch the bombs fall. She'd have to know it was no accident. 

If she didn't come back, they'd feed him a story: a mistake was made. Simontov found out somehow what the company was planning. He must have eyes or ears in the mountains. The expedition was tracked and it was Simontov who called in the strike. Angel died. The others got out.

He'd get his clearance back. They wouldn't send him to Arbeztan. Someone else was pulling the strings there now; he was just a dupe. But if he played along and asked no questions he'd be rewarded for his loyalty. He'd escape this goddamn office. Some other schmo would shrivel and die here in his place and he'd be gone off into the wide and glittering world. Theresa would be at his side, maybe. After her father died, anyway.

He drove home carefully along the forested roads, paying more attention to his driving than he usually did because he was aware he was distracted. In spite of this, twice he found himself losing control around a turn and having to slam on the brakes in a flash of fear and adrenaline as his tires skidded and the trees leapt into his path. 

He found Theresa on the sofa, on her usual cushion. The book was still in her hand but as he approached he saw that her eyes were glazed and she was not actually reading. He kissed her and she accepted his lips on hers without responding or withdrawing. Well, he supposed she would need a little time. She had done the right thing, giving him Eddie's name. No harm, no foul. He had just wanted to make sure Angel would be safe. 

She said, "My father called. He's invited us for lunch." 

"Sure. That'll be good, seeing the Old Man." He sat beside her and moved to put an arm around her shoulder. She pulled away.

"Not now," she muttered. "Just, don't."


	37. journal:  on the train.  incidents before they debark

Angel in her apartment.

She had to finish the journal. She'd be gone soon. If she didn't finish it she'd leave under a curse.

_The train rolled out of Prague station. I went to my destiny. It was the best night of my life. I stood fixed at the window. Before it got dark, the sky above the platform was a bronze dome and black clouds bloomed in it like wet roses. Scissors of lightning would soon slash down over Prague's rooftops and gold-lit churches, throwing a strobe of bright-on-dark over the Vltava. We were two heroes out of legend, trumpets blowing in the distance. My heart was pounding. All I wanted was for Carana to feel like I felt - and she did, a little. She relaxed once we got underway. We had fun, joked around, and it like old times. Jiri was rolling away behind us, getting smaller and smaller. It was just the two of us again and we were still best friends forever._

She put down the pen. There were things she didn't want to write, but she had to make a full confession.

_She came because of what I'd said the night before, when I woke her to talk her into it. At first she said she wouldn't, she couldn't. I told her it would be great. It would be an adventure. It would take the place of our Italy trip that wasn't going to happen. And finally, when she looked up at me, stricken and unsure, I told her that if she didn't do it, Jiri would never forgive her._

Yes. She had said that. Driven in the knife and given it a twist.

On the train, Carana had been nervous but she'd let Angel reassure her. "We'll be back for work, right? Because if we're not, Jason will kill us both."

"Well, I might decide to conquer Arbeztan while we're there, and that would delay us a couple hours. But I make you a promise that on Monday morning we'll wake up in the apartment and you'll be stealing my shampoo, same as always." 

They were both quiet a minute. 

"Did you lock up?" Carana asked suddenly. 

"Of course." 

"You have the money? The papers?" 

"Don't be an idiot." She laughed. Her laugh came out a little too high-pitched. "Yes. I have everything." But her hand came up to touch the pouch again. 

"I'm trying not to worry." 

"Don't worry." 

"I know. I'm trying." 

_Finally we lay down, pulling out the chairs in our cabin to make two beds. It was important to sleep on the train because we wouldn't be sleeping once we reached Vuro. I got out the sleeping bag and the sheet and we turned off the lights. I think I fell asleep quickly. But in my sleep I was nervous about missing our stop, so I kept waking up, checking my watch, checking for Carana. This happened at midnight. It happened at one a.m. It happened close to two. Except that at two, Carana wasn't in her bed. The rumpled sheet was there. The sweatshirt she'd used as a pillow was there, one empty sleeve dragging on the floor. I got up. I thought she might be in the restroom but when she didn't come back I went looking for her._

A little blond girl kept poking her head out of one of the other booths, eyes round and owlish. 

The overhead lights were dim and there was no noise but the ceaseless thrumming of the train. She pushed open the door at the end of the cabin and she stepped out onto the connection plate. Breathing in the thick air she thought of the inevitability of fate: they would soon arrive at Vuro and then, whatever was to happen would happen. 

The next car was also dim and quiet with no one in the corridor and all the cabin doors pulled shut. 

Next she pushed through the door into the café car. It was lit by a few pale bulbs overhead, the long low counter unmanned at this hour. A single booth was occupied, and the yellow light showed Carana's profile, her easy movements, her hair feathering back over her shoulder. She was laughing. Across the table were two boys, leaning towards her with eager expressions. 

"And then," Carana was saying, "the police showed up, shouting in Czech, and the three guys grabbed the cards and the money and--" 

The boys were laughing and Carana's laugh rang above theirs - not her real laugh but the fake and silly one she put on when there were conquests to be made. Angel felt a familiar knife twist in her belly. She slipped away.

Back in the sleeping bag, she ducked her head down so its warmth cocooned her. She had a sucking empty hole at her center. She was still awake when Carana returned, but she kept her head buried and her eyes closed and Carana was carefully quiet and lay down and made some rustling sounds. The train hummed. Her eyes grew heavy. 

The train jolted, and a long cutting whine sliced up from the metal floor and pressed in from all sides. They were decelerating so quickly that her body was flung against the seat-backs and pinned there. The noise continued and the train's speed decreased. Carana groaned and said sleepily, "What's going on?" 

The train came to a stop. Now lights were going on in the corridor outside, and loud, excited voices followed. Up and down the car, people were banging and speaking in Slavic. The hard stop must have woken everyone. She checked her watch. It was nearly three. 

"We're at Vuro," she said. Her throat was dry. "Carana. We're here." 

The noises continued - footsteps hitting a hard stride in the corridor, and barked orders, or what sounded like orders, and fists banging on the doors of booths near theirs. Carana was swinging her legs out of the makeshift bed and rubbing her eyes. Angel felt lit again with electricity, the way she had when they had first come aboard and the doors had closed them in. She went out into the corridor. A few other passengers were already out there, looking as dazed as she felt. A train official stomped towards her. 

"Excuse me," she said in English. "Is this Vuro?" She said it again in Czech, slowly, so if he spoke Arbezi or a different Slavic language he might still get the gist. 

The official had a gray face. He was clutching a small radio that crackled in his hand. He said in English, "Vuro is ahead. Stay in your booth." His radio crackled and he lifted it to his mouth and spat a few words into it as he rushed on. 

Carana joined her in the corridor. "They haven't opened the doors," Angel said. "I don't think we're exactly at the station. Maybe there's something wrong with the train." 

Carana looked at her warily. 

"It's nothing," Angel said. "I'm sure it's nothing. Let's look outside." They thrust themselves forward. More passengers were trickling out of their booths, probably woken by the hard stop and the grinding metal whine. At the end of the car, Angel pushed on the panel that opened the separating doors. "Come on out," she said over her shoulder as she stepped onto the connecting plate. "Room for both of us." Carana put one foot onto the plate beside her. 

It was clear at a glance that they were not at a station. There were no buildings and no nearby lights other than the light bestowed by the train itself. Beside the track, the ground fell away sharply for about six feet before leveling out. Dark ground - either dirt or woodchips - continued for another fifteen feet or so before butting up against a line of black trees that rose abruptly like the vanguard of an army. Beyond, there seemed to be nothing but forest. The moon was gibbous and cast a pale glow over the landscape. A few isolated lights, widely scattered, could be seen on hilltops in the distance. To the far left where the tracks were leading, they could make out a light patch of sky on the horizon. 

"Maybe that's Vuro up ahead," Carana said tightly. "This can't be. This is the middle of nowhere." 

Just then an unfamiliar sound boomed in the darkness. It did not sound close; it seemed to come from up ahead where Vuro might be. It was loud and hollow and echoey like an explosion. A far-off rat-tat-tat followed. 

"What is it?" Angel said. The rat-tat came again. Then a flash of light streaked in a low arc against the glowing patch of sky. There was another boom and a brief flare of orange. Then nothing. Angel's skin felt strangely numb as if it didn't belong on her body. A prickle raised the hairs on the backs of her arms. She strained her eyes as if sheer will could make them penetrate the darkness. Another arc of orange cut across the horizon. 

"A celebration, maybe," she said. It was important to say it out loud and hear Carana agree with her. That would make it true. "Or a storm. Or fireworks." 

Carana's hand found hers. "Angel," she whispered.


	38. Callahan at his father in law's, then goes into the woods to wait.

callahan and ter go to the father in law's.

The Old Man was in fine form. At the father's house. Making small talk. He fakes his way sickly through the first half of lunch. Picture of the FiL as man of duty, the cold husk of duty? Callahan felt sick. He escaped to the bathroom. 

There wasn't any choice, anyway. He couldn't warn Angel if he wanted to. If he were seen talking to her, and then she refused the job, they'd both be destroyed. There were cameras everywhere on campus. If he went to her quarters tonight to warn her, that would be the end. They'd get him in front of a tribunal. The old threat from four years ago came back to him. What came after a tribunal? Prison for him. And for Angel? And for Theresa?

His eye fell on the pill bottles. He was sweaty and shaky. It occurs to him that he's got only one way out. He saw the chart made by Theresa, carefully annotated: medicines, dosages, what they were for. Side effects, even.

"Warfarin. 4 mg before supper. Blood thinner for stroke prevention. Side effects: bruising, bleeding. Call me for severe headache or blood in toilet."

The next line: "Diltiazem. 320 mg with breakfast. Keeps heart from racing, also lowers blood pressure. Side effects: low blood pressure, slow heart rate. Call me for dizziness or passing out."

Ter didn't get it, did she? She thought she was helping, but she was pretty much handing her father the information he'd need when he finally decided to take his own life.

He studied the chart. Why not? A buzzing had started in his head. Really. Why the fuck not?

He returned to the table and smiled at his wife and his father in law. It was easy to smile. He was good at this: putting a good face on things. "I have to go to Theta," he says. "There's some work I haven't wrapped up." Ter threw him a sharp look but said nothing.

He didn't go straight to Theta. He went home first, into the garage where he had only a minute's work to do. Then he went to the public library where a young woman was kind enough to let him use her card to get on the computer. He had some research to do. Then he drove to Theta. Parked his car as he always did. Went to his office. Walked out to the loop trail. It was nearly five and Angel would be here soon. If she came. If she came.


	39. Snakebite scene.  Angel's POV

snakebite.

She comes across him on the path. Miranda is with her. He gasps. "Snakebite", etc. 

"Lie down," Miranda said. "Try not to move; if you get your heart pumping you'll circulate the venom faster." 

"I know." He reached out for Angel and she helped him down to the ground. "Will you stay with me?" he asked. "I think I might pass out soon. Dizzy." 

She sees his purple leg with the tourniquet he's tied around the calf.

"Stay with him," Miranda said. "I'll be back in five minutes. We'll get a jeep to the edge of the campus and bring a stretcher to get you out. Or someone will carry you. Don't worry." She sprinted off.

Angel reassures him. "It's just be a minute. She'll bring help."

"A minute's all we've got. Listen to me. There's no snakebite. This is the only way I could talk to you." He took a packet of pills from his pocket and downed them all.

"No snakebite?"

"You've been lied to. The job isn't what you've been told. Those men you'll be leading up the mountains won't be there to make peace or talk terms. It's an assault team. You'll lead them to the insurgents and they'll call in an airstrike. Understand? They're using you. They're going up there to kill him and whoever's with him, and when they're done they might kill you. But there's only one way you can get out of it now. I'm going to tell you how to get out, but you've got to listen."

"What are you talking about?" 

"Cabrese might be involved. I don't know. Listen. You can't back out. You have to go to Arbeztan like you planned, because if you back out, after meeting me here like this, they'll know something's up. I don't know what they'll do to us, but it won't be good. So, go to Arbeztan. Go along with it. But when they get you into the mountains, find a way to run. Sneak away in the night; hide in a cave; whatever works. If you can destroy their communications device or get rid of their weapons, that'll help. And don't let them put a tracking device on you. Just get to where you've got friends, and then run. Just get safe. We'll figure the rest out later." 

"I don't believe you. It's not true. You've got it wrong." 

"There's a Karth boy being held thirty miles up the road at a government installation. He shot Azor Mirtallev. Catherine Lund, your friend the linguist, has been translating his interrogation. That's why you were needed. Not for any self-study program for students. I've seen him. He looks just like you, except he's lost his mind. Bangs his head against the bars all day." 

"No." 

"They needed someone who spoke Karthic. You were it." 

"I won't believe it." 

He grabbed her wrist and crushed it. "You stupid girl. The man who stalked you? That wasn't any coincidence. That man wasn't from Marchev. He's a waiter. Works at an Arbezi bistro in Methuen. He was paid five hundred dollars for a job: To follow you. To terrify you into calling me. Understand?" 

She was pulling away from his grip. "Stop it."

"I can prove it. "He cornered you in a market. That wasn't enough to make you call me. So he kept on coming. He followed you to a liquor store. How do you think I know those things? Not from you: you never told me. You were set up from the beginning. My bosses did that to you. You don't know these people like I do. You don't know what they're capable of. They'll do anything. They'll kill anyone. That's the business I'm in." 

There were voices now coming through the woods. Jamie took out another packet of pills and swallowed them dry. "Pills to drop my blood pressure. Pills to make me bleed. I'm risking my fucking life for you here. I'm sorry, Angel. i'm sorry." His eyes went dim. 

Miranda burst through the trees. "Over here," she yelled. Behind her came four men. "We pick him up and carry him to the truck, then we get him to the clinic to stabilize him, then we get him out to the field where the MedEvac chopper can land. Angel, stand back, let us get him." Miranda grabbed his feet. One of the other men got him under the shoulders. He was like a rag in their arms. "How long has he been unconscious?" one of the men shouted to her.

"Just now," she whispered. But they weren't listening. They were rushing past her, back through the trees. She trailed behind. There was a four by four parked on the grass at the edge of the trees and they loaded Jamie into the back. His head lolled. Two of the men leaped into the bed beside him. Miranda and the other man got in the front. The truck backed down the slope then spun and lumbered over the grass, leaving parallel rips in the green carpet. The driver steered toward the footpath, laying on the horn as walkers jumped out of the way.


	40. angel after snakebite scene

It wasn't true. It couldn't be. She wouldnt believe it.

All upset but tries to steel her mind. Binary possibilities. Either it was true or it wasn't.

Of course it wasn't.

Think.

If it wasn't true, she should go along with the plan, lead the group to Jaro and bring peace.

If it was true--

But it wasn't.

If it was true, she needed a way to evade them. Wait until you're in the mountains, Jamie had said. That would mean keeping everyone fooled. Pretending she had nothing up her sleeve. Seeming to go along with it.

She saw bombs falling on Jaro and the others. Of course it wasn't true. Dr. Cabrese wouldn't do that.

What if he didn't know? Jamie hadn't known until today. Someone else was pulling hte strings.

She'd go forward like it wasn't true. She didn't believe it anyway. But she couldn't let anyone know about Jamie and the fake snakebite. "I'm out here risking my life."

So she had to pretend. Pretend everything was fine. They'd be watching her. They worried about her mental state already. 

It was like the first time she'd gone into the mountains, up from Vuro. You don't plan. You take one more step and then you figure out what to do next. It was the coxswain's refrain: "You can do anything for one more minute."

Right. It didn't matter what Jamie had said. She was going to do what needed doing. No matter what, she knew what that was, didn't she.

She took out her journal. Pushed back her sweaty hair. Tried not to think about Jamie and that handful of pills he'd popped as the guards came through the woods. "Out here risking my life for you. More than my life."

She took up the pen and started writing.


	41. Chapter 41

Her apartment looked exactly as he'd pictured it. The kitchen cabinets and refrigerator stood empty, and the counters were bare except for crumbs and an open canister of coffee with a spoon stuck down into it. She had bought herself a small coffee maker at the general store on campus, but no other comforts. A fork and a chipped blue plate lay in the sink. She'd left marks everywhere: dark fingerprints on the walls near the microwave and the light switches, sneaker-prints muddying the beige vinyl floor. There was a strip of cloth in the kitchen trash with dark overlapping stains - a makeshift bandage, evidently, used to wrap an injury. The dishrag she'd cut it from was in a drawer. 

In the bathroom, a damp towel was hanging crookedly on the towel bar. The clothes she left wadded on the floor outside the shower were the ones he knew her best in: the black running pants, the olive tank top. On the vanity stood a half-empty tub of moisturizer and a tube of lip gloss. Next to the soap dish lay a bent safety pin with its jaw sprung open.

This was all she'd left. What had she packed? Toothbrush and hairbrush, he guessed, and not much more. Where she was going, she'd be traveling light.

Her bedroom was as bare as the kitchen. The bed had been made carelessly, a quick yank to the blanket with the sheet left twisted underneath. Through the open closet door he could see the clothes she always wore. They were pretty much alike: three long crinkled skirts in dark colors, and a few long-sleeved tops that fell past her waist, making her look something like an old-school Russian peasant. In the waistband of a skirt, he saw something glint in a shaft of sunlight. It was a safety pin like the one on the bathroom sink. He found others in the waists of the other two skirts. Looking closer, he came across half a dozen small tears in the fabric of her clothes, all badly repaired with ragged stitches so that they made bunched or puckered lips. 

Every morning she would have stood right here after she limped out of the shower. She would have yanked on her clothes before dashing out the door, her hair wet, her ID bouncing on a clip at her waist. He used to watch her sometimes as she crossed campus at a hurried trot.

Dead center on her pillow was the notebook she'd left out for him. She had grimaced the day he'd handed it to her, sneering to show how unimpressed she was by the gift. He flipped the pages. She'd used blue ink. Less than quarter of the book was filled, maybe twenty pages in all. He saw spiky handwriting, some scribbled-out words, a dozen ribs of ripped paper running down the inside the wire spiral.

He sat on the bed and began at the first entry. There was no hurry. She wouldn't be back anytime soon.


	42. journal.  angel stomps off the train.  Carana, brave and true, follows.

They are on the train. Carana and Angel, looking out at the explosions. Carana is scared, Angel too, but also attracted. Angel had gone out into the corridor and questioned a train official. He had the wooden face of all train officials. His uniform was spotless navy and his boots shone. He enunciated carefully. "This train is stop. Vuro station is five kilometers more. But train not to stop there tonight." 

"But we're meeting people in Vuro." 

"No stop at Vuko. Not tonight." With no alteration in expression he pivoted in a military way and moved off down the corridor. Angel looked to Carana. The two of them pulled on shoes and hastily went out of the cabin. Angel touched the pouch of money under her clothes. 

"Sir," she called after him. But the man did not look back. 

They made their way in the direction he had gone, into the next car where a few passengers were now loitering in the corridor, talking in a language that was Slavic but unfamiliar. The official disappeared through the doors to the cafe car. "Excuse me," she tried to a small group of passengers. She said it first in Czech and then in Karthic. She had never used Karthic with anyone but her father. A tall man with pale eyes looked down at her. "Vuro?" she said. And then in English, "This train goes to Vuro?" He shook his head and answered, speaking decent English with a heavy accent. 

"In Vuro there is having a fight. There are soldiers. The station is just ahead but the driver is not wanting stop. He waits instructions to continue through Vuro to Sirimic. Thirty minutes south. A bigger city, closer to the sea." 

Carana muttered at her ear. "Fuck. Now what?" 

Angel asked the man for an explanation. He repeated himself: Soldiers, fighting. "You can hear it." Angel listened but heard nothing. 

An animal excitement was spreading through her. Her skin pricked and the hairs along her arms stood upright. She turned to Carana, lit from within by a dangerous high-voltage feeling. "Come on," she said. "Let's get our stuff. This is it. It's time to jump off." 

"Oh no. Hell no, you heard him." Carana was shaking her head. "No soldiers for me. No thanks." 

"We can do this," said Angel. "This is what we came for. You and me." The corridor was getting more and more crowded. Angel understood a few words: "war" and "problems." 

"Let you down! No way. No fucking way." Carana was backing away. Someone down the corridor called out her name and she turned. It was one of the boys from the café car. The sparkle leapt back into her smile. "Paul!" she cried in a high excited voice. "What the fuck, huh? They say there's fighting." 

"I know - pretty messed up!" He lurched around a knot of passengers and stood beside them. "We just heard it from a local. The Vuko stop is a few K up ahead, but no one knows exactly what's going on. The train people are trying to figure out what to do." He put a hand on Carana's arm. "No worries. I'm sure it will be fine. You just ought to come with me and Christo to the beach. Chiritil. I'll teach you to surf." 

Angel stared from one of them to the other. Carana was no longer looking at her; she was smiling into the boy's eyes as if the boy was her refuge. It was like this. It was always like this. Carana had moved off into that world where women rode off with princes. She was nothing to Carana. 

"I'm going," Angel said. Carana did not hear, did not look her way until she grabbed her arm to capture her attention. "I'm going. I promised your boyfriend. We both did. I won't break my word." 

"You're crazy," said Carana over her shoulder. "I'm not going into some kind of fight. Jiri wouldn't want that, anyway." 

"If there's a fight, then that family needs us. And, you may be a fucking coward - but I'm not." She was cool and rigid. Carana gaped. Angel had the curious sense that the train, having stopped, had transferred all its mighty power into her body. She was herself and not herself. Her body was a container, and inside, her true spirit had been called forth. She was a thousand tons of cold iron, unstoppable and speeding on rails. 

Carana said nothing, but continued to stare open-mouthed as if she had grown a second head. The train official was approaching. "Sir!" Angel called out. Her voice was sure. "How far to Vuko from here?" The man shook his head. Angel repeated the question in Karthic, clumsily. He frowned. Then in English he said. "The station five kilometers. But no stop there tonight. We go to Sirimic." 

"I'm getting off," Angel said. Without looking back she strode down the corridor the way they'd come. She could hear Carana calling out to her. All her thoughts had narrowed onto a single point and her motions were strong and elegant. Certainty made her more graceful than she had ever been before. In the cabin, she took only a minute to pack the sleeping bag, hook it in place beneath her backpack and hoist the pack onto her shoulders. Destiny awaited! She was doing this. This was happening. Out in the corridor, she found Carana blocking her way. 

"What are you doing; you're out of your mind. You can't get off here. You can't." 

"Tell your boyfriend you took his money and left his family behind. Go on. Go back to Prague. But tell him it's okay, because your best friend is gonna do the job without you." 

"I'll do that," Carana snapped. "One of us has to go back, so when you get yourself killed I can tell them where to look for the body." 

"Good plan." 

She was amazed to see Carana's face drawn into lines of actual fear. She felt sorry, but not sorry enough to unbend. She felt powerful. "I have the documents and the money. I'll find the lady's house on my own." 

A line from somewhere: _an arrow from the bowstring can't be called back._ It was better this way, she saw. Carana had never really wanted this adventure. Carana wasn't meant for this, where she, Angel, had been created for it. She would go alone into danger. She wasn't weak and silly like Carana and she didn't need anyone. 

Carana looked at her and said, "Then go. See you back in Prague, if you live long enough to make it." 

What the hell had she done? The pitiless night streatched outside the cozy and well-lit train. The wilderness awaited. She stiffened herself. The right thing and the brave thing. Hercules would do it. Jason would do it. Theseus. Perseus. Not one of them would turn this down. 

She and Carana had, in the space of five minutes, separated into strangers. They were not Damon and Pythias; never had been. That was only Angel's crazy hope. Their joint adventure was over and Angel alone would follow her destiny. 

Another train official was striding through their car. He held his radio halfway to his ear, and a man's voice was coming over it in staccato bursts, competing with a buzz of static. The official barked something into the radio. 

"Excuse me," said Angel. "Five kilometers to Vuro. Is that right? Five kilometers?" 

The official looked at her as if she were an object out of place. "Return to your seat." 

"Five kilometers to Vuro?" 

"Return to your seat. The train will move soon." 

"I'm getting off here," she said loudly. 

He stopped and regarded her in a different way, as if just that moment recognizing that she was a human girl. "No one gets off here. Next stop is Sirimic, then Kinichka, then Montaz. Your tickets are permitted for continuance to Sirimic. There will not be a problem." 

"I understand. I'm getting off anyway." The man shrugged. "Will you put the stairs down for me?" He shook his head and said something in his own language and pointed to the door at the end of the car. Angel went the way he indicated and he followed behind her until they reached the end of the car. He opened a panel on the wall and pressed a button. He spoke again, angrily this time, into his radio. Angel wasn't sure he had understood her, but then, to her right, a door opened and steps dropped slowly down from its base like a mechanical creature stretching itself upon waking. 

"This train is going to proceed," the official said sternly. 

Angel goes, not looking back. It's as if the hand of fate is pushing her forward. At the bottom, she hesitates, panicking. Then, soon afterward, the train starts moving again. She scrambles down the small hill that the trucks run on, in order to get out of the way. Her heart is pounding. Jesus, what has she done? The noise of the train is deafening. Finally it passes. For a breath's space she reminds herself, "Get the job done. Rule Three, baby." Sets her plans - the town must be further along the tracks; all she has to do is follow them. 

Then she jumps in fright. Someone is beside her. Nerves strung tight, she nearly pisses herself. 

"You're a fucking lunatic," said Carana. "But if you think I'm going to let you do this alone, you're an asshole, too." 


	43. callahan in a drugged haze.  Thoughts on the ventilator in the icu.

"Shock"

"60 over palp"

They rumble him out of one place, into another. He's dizzy. things go black.

They were putting a tube down his throat. He moaned. No one listened.

They used to tell him about hell at VBS. He should have paid more attention. Should have been a good boy.

Ter was there. Then she wasn't. 

I'm sorry, Ter. I messed up. Don't know how. All along I thought I was doing the right thing.

She put his hand in his. "No," she said. "Wrong thing. From the start it's been the wrong thing."

He tried to vomit but the world went dark before he could.


	44. Chapter 44

Cabrese in Angel's apartment. He'd kept up with her journal for weeks. It was a guilty pleasure but one he couldn't lay off.

How would the story end?

He sits and reads:

..............

Coming down the hillside, skinned palms. Hears noises.

Tear streaked paper. Cabrese squints. Her writing is getting smaller, so small it's hard to read.

_I watched what they did to her. I was behind a tree. I pissed myself there, and squatted in my piss. I couldn't look away. I was supposed to save her, but since I couldn't do that, I was at least supposed to try. To die trying. But I didn't move. I watched for a long time. She screamed for a long time. I wish I didn't have to write that, because I don't want her family to know how bad it was. But that's the truth, and that's my confession: I watched for a long time and l didn't go to her. I did nothing at all. That's why I lived._

_There was a gunshot toward the end, and I was glad, because the gunshot ended the screaming. She went quiet. The soldiers talked among themselves for a little bit. I saw their cigarettes weaving in the darkness. Then they went away. I was afraid to see what she looked like, what was left of her, but I made myself go to her, one step at a time. She was still alive when I reached her. I could hear her rough liquid breathing but I couldn't save her. Couldn't save her, couldn't leave her, couldn't end it for her. There was a rock near her head and that's what made me think of it: that if I had any courage at all I would end her suffering with one blow. I put my hand on that rock. I lifted it. But I still couldn't do the right thing._

_I held her hand. I talked to her. I don't know if she could hear me. Her breathing got rougher and then it stopped. When it was over I still couldn't leave her. I couldn't make any decisions. There were some gunshots not far away but it didn't matter. I kind of wanted one to hit me. Then she turned cold._

_I put leaves on her: fallen leaves in a blanket to hide what they'd done to her and to keep her warm. I told myself she was just sleeping. I didn't cover her face because, I couldn't do that I didn't want her to stop seeing, stop breathing. Of course I knew she was dead. I knew it but I didn't._

_That night, I knew the truth: that I could never go back to civilization. I had to give up my life. So I climbed into the mountains. The sun rose and the sun set and I slept where I could. I reached a Karth village, and that's where I understood who had attacked Vuro and killed my best friend. I promised Carana I'd avenge her, like Achilles did for Patroclus. I told Jaro I had come to fight. All through the months that followed, I waited for justice, for my death, but death never came for me - not in the mountains and not at Marchev. The UN came instead. And after a while I was safe in a bed in America. I pretended that what had gone before had been someone else's life. That the fate that was written, was someone else's fate._

Cabrese set the notebook down where he'd found it. She'd be in the air by now. Whatever was going to happen, was out of his hands.


	45. in sohrina, angel

At the hotel desk, she stood blearily against a wall. The buzz around her was Arbezi, a language she had once been able to make sense of. After eighteen hours in the air, her mind had deserted her. Her escort, Michael, was talking to the receptionist. He pushed cash toward her. She gave him a key, which he pocketed.

Angel watched. She had new eyes which were full of suspicion. She had spent the whole flight from Virginia watching Michael, a man who turned up out of nowhere and was explained to her as "One of us; he's here to help you." She had smiled at him and laughed appropriately at his jokes. She had let him guide her through the de Gaulle. And now they were in Sokhrina and night was falling and he led the way up to their room. He spoke Arbezi to the porter before the entered the elevator. She understood his curt words to the bellboy: "Take them up" - their bags, he meant, which were mostly his bags, since she had brought nothing but a change of clothes in a small duffel. The planners at Theta had promised she would get clothes and decent mountain shoes on the other end. She followed Michael to the dingy elevator with its peeling pain and worn flooring, and trailed behind him as he entered their room. 

You don't look ahead. You get through this minute. It was easy, in fact. Easy to follow a man into a hotel room. Easy to set her things down and brush her teeth. She should probably be nervous about sharing the room with a man she'd just met, but she had no emotions. She'd gone dead inside.

Two twin beds confronted her. The porter arrived a minute later and dropped their bags in the center of the floor. Michael, whose last name she had never been told, pushed some bills into his hand.

>After the porter was gone, Michael said, "We're booked as man and wife. You'll sleep while I keep watch."

"I don't know if I can sleep."

"You have to. I've got something that will help. Magic bullet." He slung a suitcase up onto the nearest bed and rummaged in a pocket. "I'm going to be up all night. Guarding you. And in the morning I'll take you to the rendez-vous and then I'll go home and that will be the end of my trip. But for you, you'll need to be rested. So you have to sleep. It's ten pm local time but your body is telling you it's four in the morning. Take this to reset your clock." 

He unfolded a piece of brown paper and showed her the pill inside. "I'll wake you at four a.m, local time, and you'll feel like a new woman. I've taken it myself, so I can speak from experience:" 

He was probably lying but it didn't matter anymore. She put her hand out and he placed the white tablet in the center of her palm. She'd wake up or she wouldn't. She'd meet her destiny one way or the other.

She did wake up. They left in the dark. Michael drove in silence. Once she asked him, "Are we going to Vuro?"

"Not far from there."

He dropped her on a dirt road. It was still dark. If she was supposed to be the guide, she wasn't going to be very good at it. They climbed out. Six men were waiting in the dark. One introduced himself. "I'm Evan. You ready for this?"

They gave her shoes and a jacket. She thought there would be a pack for her, but Evan said no. "We've got everything. You just need to show us the way, once we get up into your part of the mountains. If you get tired or hurt, ask for help. We'll get you there. This is Mac, Doug, and the dumb one's Aidan. Their whole job, pretty much, is to be at your beck and call."

"Fuck off, Ev," said Aidan."

"Sh. Act like a gentleman. Got a lady present."

She thought of saying she wasn't a lady. "You're going to get us up to the western slopes above Tamar? That's what they told me. You'd get us there and then, when I recognize the area, I'm supposed to lead you to the villages and figure out where Jaro is."

"Exactly. We do the first part, you do the second. No mines down here, right? If we go through the woods like this, there won't be any mines."

"Right. They mined the pastures, not the woods, and they did some of the small roads and paths, too, to keep us from getting out. Up high the trees start to thin out and there's a couple minefields they planted just to terrorize us. But not down here. There wouldn't be any point." 

They set out. Pace was hard enough to tire her. Evan asked how she was doing too many times. 

They came to a hard spot. Doug and Aidan helped her across. She got sick. It was getting late in the afternoon. The men talked among themselves. It was decided to make camp. She apologized. "I can keep going. Really. I wish we could get somewhere I recognize." They tell her not to worry. There's no deadline. No use overdoing it.

Aidan helps her set up for the night. They eat. She keeps to herself. She has a conversation with Aidan, asks him where he lives. He mentions family. He reassures her. She tells him she's okay. The night comes. She has to think. She doesn't want to think. She'd like to believe her fate is written and there's no choices left to make. But it's not true. She has to choose. That's the terror: choosing and maybe being wrong.

The next morning they move even slower, it seems to her. They get into the region she knows. She begins to mislead them. She thinks of Odysseus. She hasn't yet decided what to do; she just needs more time. She's temporizing. She oculd lash herself to the belly of a sheep in the dark. If she's going to get away, it has to be in the night. She marshalls her advantages: she knows the area. That's pretty much all. She can run from them in the night. Will she, though? She doesn't know.

Night. Encampment. She has led them up to the tricky spot. Minefield to the side. Chasm to the left. There was a path between the two, but you had to scramble over the rocks. There was a good chance she wouldn't be able to do it. But if she did it would give her the best shot of getting away. They'd wake up and find her gone. Without her, they'd have to return, wouldn't they? They leave her here.

And what about her? She'd make a life with the Karth, forever? Or get back down the mountain and find her way out, ask for help getting back to the US. She had no money. What would happen in the US? In Boston, the Arbezi man would kill her. She had money at the credit union. Could she get it? Would she be arrested if she went back to Theta? She could claim she'd gotten lost on the mountain. Had gone off to pee in the dark and couldn't find her way back. Had gotten hurt maybe. Fallen down a chasm. She'd have a whole story which they might not believe but couldn't prove false She'd lied before, hadn't she? She'd lied about Carana and no one had ever known.

If she didn't come back, Dr. Cabrese would go to her apartment. She'd left the journal on her bed. He'd know everything.

She didn't have to do anything. She could make no choice and let the others sweep her along. Whatever happened would happen. When it was over, she might end up back at Theta, snug in her bed within four walls, with Dr. Cabrese telling her how well she'd done. There'd be a job, Jamie had promised. A steady government job. She could teach Karthic at Theta forever, maybe. She'd have a normal life and be a normal girl. Jamie, who loved her so much he'd risked his life for her, would be there. She'd make other friends - not as good as Carana was, but still. She could do it. She'd have a boyfriend, maybe. Children. A home. She'd live like other people. Lots of other people went to war and came home and went on with things. Carana would want that for her.

She'd written the last entry of her journal the morning before Michael took her to the airport. Maybe Dr. Cabrese wouldn't wait to see if she came back. Maybe he was reading it now.

On the night she climbed up from Vuro with the sounds of fighting below her and Carana's ghostly face shining pale and white in front of her, she'd known exactly what her future held. She'd known like Achilles had known.

She crept out of her bag. No one was moving. In two hours -- okay, four, becasue she was slow - she could find hte high villages. After that-- well, she'd figure that part out later.

She crept quietly. She'd need the jacket and the shoes. She could find water. Food wasn't necessary.

She passed Evan's bag. She passed Doug's. Step by step. A lightness came over her. She had given herself into the hands of fate and there were no more choices left to make.

Aidan's voice came out of the darkness, making her jump. "You okay, Angel? Where are you going?"


	46. journal:  she followed me off the train

_She followed me off the train._

_That's what happened._

_She was terrified but she did it anyway._

She followed me off the train.

The black letters stared back at Angel. They damned her. 

She had damn near fainted when she turned and saw Carana. She sat down on the ground because her knees wouldn't hold her. "Jesus," was all she could say. And Carana giggled in a frightened way.

"All right," she said. "You and me. Let's save the world. You ready?" 

Carana said, "You and me, doing the dumbest thing anyone's ever done."

"But doing it together."

"Ange. I'm scared to death."

"I'll take care of everything. Don't worry. It's you and me. We're the invincible duo. I got your back."

"Let's just not get killed. Can that be the plan?"

They walking along the tracks. sounds of gunfire, then explosions. maybe a glow above the trees. Angel says they should move into the edge of the woods, for cover. But after a short attempt, the brambly underbrush drives them back toward the tracks.

Carana, scared. "Stupid fucking idea. I can't believe we're doing this."

There was nothing to do but continue. Walk into the town, find the family, get them out. Do the job. "Don't be afraid. we'll be fine." She wouldn't be brave if she were alone, but Carana is with her and that makes her feel safe.

Later, Carana said, "If they're smart, the family is packing their car right now and getting out of dodge."

"I didn't think of that. Well, it doesn't matter. We have to do our job, anyway," she says. "We made a promise."

Carana grinned weakly. "So, point of honor."

"Exactly!" They both fell silent.

Angel said, "Once upon a time. The people of Thebes had been conquered by the people of Crete. Every year they sent a tribute: seven young men and seven young women, who never came back." She sneaked a look at carana. "Should I go on?"

"Yeah. Keep talking. It's better than the quiet."

She tells the story as they walk.

Finally carana broke in: "How do we even know what we're walking into? I don't wanna get shot, Angel. We could stay here til daytime and we know what the hell is going on."

"I know. But I think it's better we go in at night. Safer. We can creep around and figure out what's going on with no one seeing us."

Carana stops dead. "I'm not going," she says. "I'm not a fucking nut job. I'm not walking into a war."

Angel gaped. "Well, we're here now." She couldn't lose Carana. She needed her. "We don't have much choice. We can't stay here forever. eating nuts and berries."

"Did you pack any food?" Carana asked. "Water?"

"No. You?"

Carana shook her head. They were both quiet. Then Angel said, "Well, that makes the decision. We head for town."

"We can cross the tracks to the other side, and wait for the next damn train to get us out of here."

"A train doesn't stop for hitchhikers. We're here and we're all alone. We deal with it. We use the night while we've got it. We have to go on."

"We find the road," said Carana, gripping her sleeve. "We hitchhike out of here. Listen. I hear cars. Through the forest. I bet there's a road. Someone just has to cut through those trees and look."

"No! We promised Jiri, didn't we? Do you want to take your chances climbing into some guy's car? Here's what we do: We go into town. We find the family. We do our job. Whatever's going on right now, it'll be done soon. We have to get those people. Then we all take the train out, or the ex-wife will drive, as soon as we show her the papers and tell her there's a place in Prague waiting for her. Safe and sound, and we get it done."

Carana said no. She sat down.

"All right," Angel says, desperate. "You wait here, I'm gonna climb that hill" - theres a rise to their left; she can make it out by moonlight - "and when I get to the top i'll be able to see the city and get an idea of what's going on. You stay here, okay?" She turns back after a step. "Carana. Take half the money. In case... I just don't want to drop it in the woods. I'll be back soon."

ey had been trudging in silence for some time. Every now and then, Angel glanced at her watch. They were keeping to the pocked grass between the track and the trees, and with the packs and their fatigue, she judged their pace to be about two miles per hour. The station should have been a ninety minute hike. Already it had been more than that. Still, her fear had worn off and she was certain they would come around a curve and find the town in front of them. They would have to watch for the riot or the soldiers, or whatever was happening. They would lie low until first light and then find someone to guide them to the woman's home. They could offer money. Angel was working this out in her head. Carana was walking a half-step behind her and Angel had the impression that she was calm and trusting.

"You still okay?" she asked.

"I'm good. How much farther, do you think?"

"Not much. Listen." She stopped. There was a rat-tat off in the distance, then another. Firecrackers, she would have guessed on any other night. A car backfiring. A snare drum being struck, or a book falling off a table. Lots of things could make that sound.

"What is that?"

"It's nothing."

"It's guns. Something's happening. I can't believe we're actually here, going through with this."

"An adventure. It's fine. All according to plan." Cari's nervousness made Angel feel strong and capable. Their position was clear; there were no decisions to be made. They would walk into town. She would take care of Carana. One step at a time. The rat-tat-tat sound repeated. "Don't be afraid," she said firmly. "Let's walk closer to the trees." So no one sees us, she almost added, but kept that part to herself.

"You want to wait here until sunrise?" Angel was dubious. The idea had occurred to her, but she was not eager to spend a night crouching against the trees, unable to sleep and getting more achy and exhausted by the hour but no closer to their goal. Also, as much as she feared the hidden dangers of the dark, she appreciated the cloak of invisibility it threw over them. With Carana beside her she was not afraid of the dark; at least, not much. She was more worried about what might happen in the city when daylight exposed them. They were not likely to face the usual hassling from aggressive men - since if there was a riot or a fight going on, hitting on a couple of American girls would be a low priority for the locals - but she was worried about the pouch full of cash beneath her t-shirt. In a messed-up situation people might be desperate for money.

"I'm not going any farther," Carana said. "I'm not a fucking nut job."

Angel's calm fled - it was as if the bottom was torn out of her stomach. A terrifying image flashed in her thoughts: herself going on alone, exposed on all sides, while the woods peopled themselves with monsters of her imagination. There were long-armed ghouls among the trees, and grinning men with guns. "Well, we're here now," she said, trying to betray nothing of her terror. "We don't have much choice."

"We can cross the tracks to the other side and wait for the next damn train heading back north to get us out of here."

"I don't think that will work. Trains go a hundred miles an hour. They can't stop for random passengers." Please, Carana. Please.

"Then we can find a road and hitchhike out. Listen. I hear cars." Angel strained her ears. She realized Carana was right. She could make out the rise and fall of cars rushing along a highway, distant but unmistakable. It was coming from their right, beyond the dark line of trees. There must be a road buried there, one they could reach if they pushed into the woods. It was deep enough in the trees that no headlights were visible, but it could not be far.

She did not want to thrash through the trees, or trust a stranger to take them to safety. She had already fine-tuned the plan in her mind so many times that all uncertainty had been ironed out of it. She could picture the city laid out in front of her like the grid of a video game; she could see the streets which would look like Prague's streets, with close-set stone buildings, and she could see the house of the woman which would be made of stone and would have a small walkway leading to three stone steps, and she could see the woman herself, forty years old, answering the door in a green wrap dress with her eyebrows raised, not friendly but not hostile. All these future events were safe and known. Carana's idea was the crazy one.

"You want to take your chances climbing into some guy's car? I think that's way more dangerous than just going into the city. Also, we promised." You go forward; you take one step and then another and eventually everything works out. "Jiri's kids," she said. "They need us. He's back in Prague expecting us to do what we said."

Carana walked to the edge of the tree line, slipped her arms out of her backpack and dropped it to the ground. She sat down on it. "I'm done," she said. "I'm going to wait right here. You can go or stay; whatever you want." In the dark Angel clutched her own abdomen in panic.

"All right. You wait here." Her mind was racing. Her plans were in shreds. She could not go forward by herself, but neither could she stay still. You had to stay in motion and head toward the goal. You had to keep your mind occupied with plans and expectations and have always the next step to focus on, and the one after that. To sit still was to open your mind to all the fears that lurked in the borderlands. In desperation she heard herself say something she instantly regretted. "You wait, and I'll go into the woods a little ways and find that road. I'll come right back and tell you what it's like. Then we'll figure out what to do." Carana didn't answer. The faded moonlight revealed a blank, set face, either angry or exhausted. "All right?" Angel persisted.

After a moment, Carana said, "All right. Just - hurry back."

And so it was decided; she could not admit her fear or back away from her offer, and so she had no choice now. She must face the trees alone. It was no good hesitating because the thing must be done and if she did it quickly she was less likely to give in to terror. Her heart was beating too fast and her palms were sweating but she would keep that to herself so Carana would not become more frightened. She considered leaving her backpack at Carana's side. That would make for easier going among the trees - but the pack by now seemed to have grown into her body like the shell of a turtle, and she would feel unprotected without it.

Keeping her bearings was the important thing. If she got lost-- well, she wouldn't think about that. She took note of the position of the moon, which hung on the far side of the tracks midway between the horizon and the dome of the sky. She would have the moon at her back when she entered the trees and then would head toward it on the return trip. Looking for the road would not be hard because she would keep her ears open and move toward the sounds of the cars. Coming back to Carana, she would just keep moving until she came out into the clearing by the tracks. The tracks crossed the entire country so they would be impossible to miss. She assured herself that it would be only a short walk. She would just be crossing a strip of trees between railway and road, and no harm would come to her.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. Except not. They were merely scary. She thrust herself into the trees and within a few steps it was even darker than it had been alongside the tracks, for the moonlight was mostly obscured. However, the trees were not large at all and not as closely packed as she had thought. It was not much of a forest. She could have encircled most of the trunks with her two hands. Underfoot was little vegetation, only a layer of dead leaves that gave way softly under her sneakers. She had gone only a few steps in when she thought she could already hear the sounds of cars becoming louder. She glanced back. Yes, she could make out the silver glow of the moon, partly obscured by the net of branches above her. It was still where she wanted it, at her back. She relaxed a little. This was not so bad. In fact she was safer here than alongside the track. No one would come this way; no one could see her. The trees were a good hiding place.

After another couple minutes, she saw a sudden flash of blinking light in motion. Headlights, she realized, blinking between trees as a car raced by. By their speed, this must be a main road or highway. More cars passed as she ploughed forward. The ground below her was becoming marshy and uneven. She was sinking deeper with each step; she hoped her shoes would not soak through. The trees were now spaced out farther than they had been before, and as they thinned in front of her she could make out more of what lay ahead. She came up suddenly on a low metal railing. Beyond it lay a clearing, with something like crushed rock covering the ground. In the moonlight the road had a fearsome otherworldly look that made her think of it as a path to perdition - but she reminded herself that in daylight it would look like any other road anywhere in the world. It had two lanes on each side with no center divider. To the right it rose gently over a small hill; halfway up the hill was a large metal sign on a post, but because of her angle and the darkness she could not make out any words. She squatted for a moment beside the railing and tried to get her bearings. The city of Vuko would now be to her left. If she and Carana were to flag down a car on this side of the road, it would take them away from the city. Well, maybe that was for the best. She pondered. Other ideas occurred to her. They had money. They could hitch a ride to Simiric or wherever their ride could take them, and from there they would figure out what was happening in Vuko. They could call the number JIri had given Carana, the woman's number, and explain in bad Czech or English who they were and that they had money for her and had come to help her. Carana was right all along. It would be crazy to go into the city with no idea what waited for them up ahead. Thank God for her friend's good sense.

She turned. Everything was settled and she had survived her forest adventure without problems. Carana would be glad to hear the new plan. And now, the task was to put one foot in front of the other, heading toward the moon, until she was back at Carana's side with the train track in front of her.

To keep her mind busy and calm she began counting. Finding the road had taken no more than seven or eight minutes, and she would go faster on the way back now that she was less frightened and more sure of the way. A thousand-count should do it. She would count slow and steady, one-and, two-and, so each number would represent both the left foot and the right foot. Probably she would reach Carana before she hit eight hundred. She would count it off in groups of one hundred so the big goal was broken up into small ones. It was the way you tackled the erg when the coach wanted a five thousand meter piece. Five hundred meters was fifty-six strokes. Repeat times ten. Don't look too far ahead or you'd give up. Above all, never stop.

Two hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred. She must be getting close. Was that the clearing up ahead?

Then, up ahead: voices.

She stopped. A man's voice? Instinctively she found herself dropping into a crouch. But she could not be sure what she was hearing. Could there be voices? She had to know. She cinched her backpack tighter at her waist. No one could see her. She edged closer, though her legs were suddenly trembling.

Voices, men's voices, several of them. The language sounded Slavic but she understood none of the words. The tone was conversational.

And then a female voice, louder, with a current of fear in it. "No. No. I don't want to." English. Carana's voice. Angel's legs gave out and she sank to the ground, her bladder loosening and a gush of piss flooding between her thighs. Her body knew enough to be terrified and her mind had fled a little ways away to keep watch from the safety of the trees.


	47. angel in the mountains, runs for it.

Aidan stopped her.

She makes up excuses. Needs to go relieve herself.

He wants to go with her. She convinces him not to come.

In the woods, she runs.

They'll come after her. Run. Just run.

Their voices. "Shit," says Aidan, "I didn't think she'd--"

She's flattened behind a rock. "Relax, she's got the tracker on. We can find her."

Tracker. The shoes and jacket. She edged along the ravine. She didn't want to take off the jacket. They were closing on her. 

She threw the jacket into the ravine. 

Still closing. 

She knew this route. A narrow ledge beside the ravine but there are trees above and roots to hold on to. She squeezes around a rock. Get away from her last position, that's what mattered. They'd lose her. They'd follow the signal into hte ravine. Unless maybe the fall broke the equipment. Then they'd have no signal and they'd just fan out.

She staggered on.

Crept out along the ledge. Boulders rising. She could go high. She climbed a few steps up, scrabbling. Loose rock came away in her hand but she had a solid foothold. There were roots here too, vertical, threaded into the rock, thick enough to grip and trust with her weight. She looped her left arm through one of them and flattened herself back between the boulders, twisting herself so she could see back the way she'd come. Voices were closing on her. Please let none of them stagger into the minefeld. Let them all get out of this alive and go their separate ways. She tried to track their movements in the dark. At least two were near her. She saw a flash of light. Someone was on the other side of her boulders, shining a bright light. She shrank as small as she could. With her right hand, she seized a loose rock the size of her fist. Stay small, stay quiet. Even if he shone his light along the ledge, the way she'd come, he might not see her.

She'd been crouched like this before. Many times before, in the mountains, preparing an ambush. But the first time, in the woods outside Vuro, had been the worst. You had to know when to act. It was better to act than to watch. That was the lesson of Vuro.

The light swung suddenly in her direction. "I'm going to look over here." Aidan's voice, on the other side of the boulders. Coming her way.

"I'm here," she whispered. And then, louder. "Help me, I'm stuck. I'm going to fall." Aidan snapped upright and shone the light up in her direction, right at her torso, not high enough to blind her. She gripped the root. She slammed her rock down on his head.

He buckled and grunted, tipping sideways. "You can do anything for one minute," she whispered as she kicked out, clinging to the strong root that balanced her. His arms windmilled back and he dropped the light and darkness took them both to different places. There were two sounds: the bright clatter of his light as it smashed against the rocks below, and a heavy thud. After that: nothing. 

_It's fate,_ she told herself. _It's fate, and it's done._ She peered up at the boulders massed above her. _Now, you climb. This is how it is. This is how it has to be. This is what's left._ She reached for the first handhold and hoisted herself up. 


	48. ICU, callahan wakes up.  Ter.  Quentin.

He wakes up.

Ter is there. 

Quentin arrives, face grim.

A look exchanged between Ter and Quentin. Q says to her, "I have to talk to your husband."

Ter nods. Stands back. Quentin draws the curtain around the two of them.

Whatever happens, happens, Callahan thinks. I'm too damn tired to care.

...............

Faces, noise. Sore throat. He gets his hand up and it brushes against something hard at his mouth. He groans, gets hold of it, yanks. Coughs. God, that's better. Beeping, faces leaning over him. "He's pulled it out--" "What's his sat?"" Something hard is shoved into his mouth and he splutters. Then breathing gets easier. Then oblivion again.

Next time: he wakes, groggy, feeling black and blue. Hears his name. Theresa is beside him.

Sweetest face. God how he loves her. "Honey," he says, voice like sawdust.

"Hey," she says. "You're back."

He is confused, and she explains the name of the hospital; he's in the ICU. He cant quite remember how he got here.

She reminds him: a snakebite on the loop path at Theta.

Oh God. That. His face shifts into horror, fear. Because, Angel - what happened to her? And Theresa is watching his expression. And he realizes he has to cover up. "Damn, that's right. I was running. Never saw the sucker. Felt the teeth, though. Don't remember much after that."

At the door. Quentin. He and Theresa look daggers at each other. Quentin wonders if he's awake enough to talk. Theresa says he's tired; best if he rests. Quentin says, but the doctor already gave me permission. Just a few minutes Theresa. If you'll excuse us.

Quentin and Callahan. Quentin tells him: Angel went off the rails. Left the group, ran off. They were stranded in a minefield. One of them got killed, another lost his foot.

Callahan, sick, exultant, trying to hide it. "My God -- sorry -- I never thought she would--"

"There'll be an inquiry. And Simontov is raising hell. Doctor says you'll be fit to leave by tomorrow. Let me know the instant you're out. We have damage control to do."

\---------

He got out the next day. His leg was still purple and he was weak but the doctors said that was temporary. 

He went home.

He realized Ter had left him.

\------------

Callahan and Cabrese. 

One day later, Callahan limped into Cabrese's office. He looked tired, Cabrese thought. He looked beaten. 

"Thanks for coming. As you know, this isn't a CDD, just a discretionary meeting. I won'd send any record of it to the bosses." 

"Unless you have gray-level concerns," said Callahan wearily. "Yes. I understand." 

"You've recovered physically? Or are there still aftereffects?" 

Callahan stared into the middle distance. Finally he said, "I'm fine. Theresa left me." 

"I'm sorry." 

"So am I." 

"Think she's going to come back?" 

"She won't. This time, she won't." 

"I'm sorry."

Callahan didn't answer. "You've heard about Angel and what happened on the mountain."

"Yes."

"Why do you think she turned on the team?" 

"I would say she had divided loyalties. What do you think?" 

"I think you're right." Callahan was guilty, Cabrese decided. He had wanted to protect her. He had faked the snakebite and warned her off. "I also think she was badly damaged by the stalker in Boston. She learned that no place was safe and no one could be trusted." He paused. "That stalker. We need to talk about him." 

Callahan raised his head. "You figured it out."

"Who was he, really?" 

Callahan laughed, a sound like two stones grating on each other. "A Rachatan man from Sokhrina. He worked security for one of Azor's nightclubs. He moved to Boston after the war." He added, "I paid him five hundred dollars. I told him exactly what to say." 

"It was a brilliant move. You got back into Quentin's good graces." 

"I wanted to help her. I thought I could help her." 

"The man she killed in the mountains was a father of three." 

"I did my job. I did my best. I did it for my country." 

"You've made a lot of sacrifices."

Cabrese could see him rearranging the truth into acceptable interlocking leaves. There were so many betrayals on all sides that he couldn't see a way through them. The solution, to men like Callahan, was to take refuge in simple loyalty. If he had strayed and warned Angel on the loop path, then the death of a company operative would singe his conscience and reinforce his loyalty in the future. 

They were all guilty; that was the weapon that kept all company men in line. They all looked away from the dark stains on each other's hands. He had recognized this tendency in medical school, seeing doctors reluctant to call out each other's mistakes because they had all made mistakes of their own. From now on, Callahan would be the best of loyal employees. 

He produced from his desk an envelope, unsealed. "She left this behind in her quarters. This letter tells what happened to the roommate from Prague. Poor girl was killed in the woods the night they came into Vuro - attacked and shot by a group of armed men. Those would have been Rachatan men, I think. Sent by Azor Mirtallev." 

"I suppose they were." 

"She joined up with the Karth fighters to avenge her friend's death. A common story. Then she ended up in Marchev." He handed the envelope to Callahan, who looked at it blankly. "Before she left, she told me she was going to write that. She wanted it delivered to the girl's parents so they'd know what happened to their daughter. The parents live in Boise. Take them the letter. I don't know if the girl's body can be found and brought home; look into it before you go." 

Callahan said, "And after I've done my penance?" 

"You'll have your clearance reinstated; you'll go through torture remediation; and you'll get back to work in Ambassadorial." 

After he was gone, Cabrese reflected. Callahan would be the most loyal of employees. He turned to his computer and began to compose a carefully worded letter to his superior about his trainee Miranda LaSalle. He was recommending her for lateral transfer.


	49. cabrese with quentin.  cabrese with callahan

"You were her handler," Quentin said.

The man was agitated, that was clear - thinking, probably, the same things Cabrese was: _what will the bosses say; what will the fallout be?_ "How could you have let this happen?" 

"I did wonders with her - but I don't do magic. She was a calculated risk. You must have known that. I would guess that being back in the mountains would had a bad effect on her. I trusted that the men on the expedition would be able to keep her on the straight and narrow. I read their report: they didn't see it coming. No one could have predicted it or prevented it." 

He was aware of the other possibility, which he kept to himself. Callahan's snakebite. Callahan and Angel, alone in the woods. It was a hell of a coincidence. 

The important thing was that no one else - not Quentin, not the bosses - develop the same suspicion that Cabrese harbored. His failure with Angel was bad enough, and would go down in the books as a strike against him. If it became thought that he had failed with Callahan as well, and that the two of them had gone off the rails together right under his nose, it could end him. He had just heard about Johanssen, who had been Callahan's debriefer: another employee in his stable had been cited for a gray-level breach of security; Johanssen had received a lateral transfer into a dark little office he would not be returning from. 

Fortunately, no one but him (and the now banished Johanssen{ knew Callahan's history with Angel. He would, however, have to feel out Callahan thoroughly to determine where his loyalties now lay. He would have to chat with Callahan when he came out of the ICU. 

"It's a cluster," said Quentin. Cabrese agreed wholeheartedly.


	50. callahan on the plane to idaho

he makes the best of it.

At least he's got his job back.

He can get Ter back, can't he? He can find Angel, too. She must be out there. He's not going to believe she fell into a ravine

He takes out the page he's supposed to deliver. He reads: 

Callahan put away the paper.

After Idaho, he'd go to Sokhrina soon. Meet up with Karel, try to salvage this mess. Get the mines for America. He believed in a strong America.

Callahan on the plane.

He reads Angel's confession.

 _I loved Carana. I still keep thinking I'll see her again around some corner, laughing._

Here is what must be remembered: Carana was brave and she was my friend. She risked her life, and lost it, when she followed me off the train just north of Vuro, on the night the war began. 

We split up in the dark to scout the woods. She was shot by a group of men. It was quick - a single shot. I saw it happen. I buried her just inside the woods but the earth was packed so I put leaves on her, and moss to keep her warm. 

I loved Carana and will always remember her. 

His eyes blur. He's thinking not of her but of Theresa - because that's the thought that he keeps having about his wife. 

He's got nothing left of his life.

The company used Angel. And they had used him to sell the expedition to her. And he had used her. And Cabrese - had he known the real mission or been left in the dark too? No way to know. _We all have dirty hands,_ Theresa would say. He felt like his innards had been spooned out. He felt nothing.

Of course, the company did it because it was good for America. It was the best way - the smart tactic. He should probably have seen it himself, if he hadn't gotten so personally involved. 

Thoughts return to Theresa. Maybe after a little while, she'd come back. But he knows her better than that. 

Okay then - what about Angel? Maybe she'd get word to him somehow; let him know she was safe. Maybe he could find a way to see her again - on some mountain peak--

Stupid. Stupid fantasies. He had never been the kind of man who lied to himself. (irony here.) Well, he had his clearance back. He had his job, and he was damn good at it; always had been. 

Remembers what he and Theresa argued over. Someone has to kill the cow. All right. That was him.

He straightened. A strong man kills the cow. A patriot. He does the hardest fucking thing in the world, so no one else has to. Theresa can keep her ethics and Angel can keep her Karth savages, and Callahan is the silent hero who makes it all possible. 

All right. The job. The country. Fuck knows, he's earned this damn promotion. 

Simontov would still need careful handling. The Karth would still need to be defeated so America could get its mining treaty. He leaned his head against the window. The snakebite took a lot out of him and he's tired. 

Settling himself, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.


	51. Chapter 51

epilogue

Cabrese at home, at the table with lights off, drinking alone.

Lover comes out. Puts a hand on his shoulder. Asks if he did okay today. Observes that he's drinking hard.

"Yes," Cabrese says. Pours himself another.


	52. Chapter 52

.............

just as they went out, when Carana had paused in the doorway to caress the ancient chipped molding with a sweep of her arm so that her manicured fingernails grazed over the painted wood. It was a strange gesture - superstitious, thought Angel. Or regretful.

And Angel had said with true and calculating precision, like an assassin placing a poison dart in the perfect spot: "But if you don't, Jiri will never forgive you." 

"Okay, listen. It's this: whenever you can't decide what to do, do the brave thing. That way, no matter how bad things turn out, you can always console yourself afterwards by saying, "Well I was an idiot and I fucked everything up, but at least I wasn't a coward."

Angel settled herself happily against the seat and counted off on her fingers. "Rule one: Do the right thing. And Rule Two? Do the smart thing." 

"Those are actually way better than Rule Three. I mean, those ones actually make sense." 

"You might think that. But the problem is that you can never know what's the right thing or the smart thing in advance. Afterwards you can usually get it right, with hindsight. But then it's always too late, because you've already done the dumb thing and the wrong thing and sealed your fate. But Rule Three? That one's easy. That's why, when you're in a quandary, that's the one you've got to count on." 

"I don't know why the brave thing is any easier to figure out than the others."

"You just ask yourself, what's hardest; what scares you most? That's the brave thing, so that's the one you do." She added, "That's why I had to sleep with Corbin that time. I knew he was a shithead and he was probably going to go back to Ellie and I was going to get my feelings hurt. But he was such a god, and I thought: should I play it safe? Or go home with him even though he's probably using me? Eenie meenie minie mo. And I couldn't decide, and so - Rule Three!"

"Uh huh. And look how well that worked out." 

She had barely spoken to him after she turned fourteen, but his death had thrown her; the whole spring of her junior year had felt like she was sliding too fast down a white tunnel. Afterwards, she started to reshape him as a tragic hero. She decided in retrospect that he had been a sad, romantic figure, having been uprooted young and then widowed and forced to scrape together a life among strangers. She made up stories about the Kar-Paval where, she imagined, men were noble and sowed grain in rocky soil, and fought for honor and vengeance. He had been twelve when he left with his parents and an uncle, his brothers and cousins. "No one ever left but us," he told her. Only one other child had survived the unforgiving journey: his cousin Ura, who had become Angel's mother and died young. 

"There was a war when he left," she said suddenly. "There was always a war, maybe: the _dzhoma-dzhira_ coming up into the mountains to try to, I don't know, make the Karth pay tribute or something. One night the grownups got him and his brothers and sister out of bed, and cousins too, and bundled them up, and they sneaked down the mountain. When it got light they hid, and when it got dark they walked. Finally they reached some place on the coast and boarded a boat. My dad was seasick the whole way across and he thought America was terrible because there weren't any trees or mountains. When he first saw Boston he asked his father, 'Are we _dzhoma-dzhira_ now?' " 

She did not talk about the deaths and she didn't repeat the final line of her father's story. _I asked him, are we dzoma-dzhira now? And then my father hit me in the mouth._

"I talked to my dad last night." Carana said darkly. "To tell him I loved him. Before we left."

"It'll be all right," Angel answered.

She didn't want to talk any more about families, so she suggested they try to sleep. They pulled out the six seats, three on each side, making the booth into two cozy beds. Angel spread her sleeping bag over herself. Carana, who didn't own a sleeping bag, pulled out her orange sundress to use as a blanket, and a gray sweatshirt for a pillow. They wished each other good night and clicked off the overhead light. In the dark, the sounds of the train were louder, and Angel's mind was racing ahead of her down the track. 


End file.
